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TRENCH TALES 



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TRENCH TALES 



BY 

CLARENCE LUMPKIN JORDAN 

LIEUTENANT, ORDNANCE CORPS, 

AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, 

FRANCS 




THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

440 Fourth Avenue, New York 
1919 



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Copyright, 1919, by 
The Nealk Publishing Company 



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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

When the Cross Trails Meet 9 

Song of the Sammies . 10 

The Volunteers 12 

In Training 13 

" Going In " 14 

The Boy the Stars and Stripes Are Proud to 
Own 15 

Our Old " Dough Boys " 16 

The " Fighting Finn " 17 

Song of the Camioneers ....... 19 

" Over the Top " . . . .20 

How Pat O'Shea Got the Kaiser's Goat . . 22 

Sargint Johnsing, Philosopher 23 

Back There 26 

The Usual Grouch 27 

The " Jackass Battery " . . . . . . . 28 

The Star-Shell Country 29 

The Gas 31 

Sargint Pud Macnett . . . . . . ..33 

"C'Est la Guerre" 37 

En Permission . .38 

"On Les Aura!" 41 

The Masters of No Man's Land .... 42 

The Philosophy of Corporal Cone .... 46 

The Sapper Pioneers 48 

Billy Volunteer 50 

Just Sammy . .51 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

John Selectman 52 

Captain Dixie 52 

The Colonel's Story 54 

An Air Raid 58 

Service of the Rear 60 

The Raiders 61 

In the Dugout 64 

Allister Bill's Elsie . . . . . . . .66 

On Patrol 68 

A Hun Aviator . 70 

The Trail Through No Man's Land ... 74 

My Friend 76 

Lines from a Listening Post 77 

My Epitaph 79 

Letters from Home ... . . ... 80 

To a Friend . . . . . . . . . . .81 

Seeing Through the Mud 82 

The Best Game of All 84 

My Hero . 85 

Sammy's Dutch Courage 87 

Section D — TMU — 133 90 

My Old Pal and Me . 93 

Those French " Pom Poms " 94 

Over the Drinks 96 

Them Debutanters' Caramels 98 

The Little Nights, the Lean Nights . . . 101 
" Heaven, Hell or Hoboken Before Christ- 
mas!" 103 

Saving the Railhead 104 

The Double- Jointed Dane 106 

Taps / . 109 



WHEN THE CROSS TRAILS MEET 

Laughing around the bivouac fires when the Cross Trails 

meet, 
Roseate rays of peacef ulness making life so sweet ! 
Comrades are always welcome there in the fireglow's spell 
And he is a Cross Trail Legionaire if he's a tale to tell. 

Men of a dozen countries, children of No Man's Land, 
Breaking their bread together, — Brothers of Heart and 

Hand, — 
Telling their tales of untrod trails in the wisps of light, 
Cheering their pals with dreams of home in the long, long 

night. 

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, fighting side by 

side, 
Doctor, lawyer and merchant, chief in their cast-off pride, 
Battling now for the Cause of Right where the gas gongs 

beat, 
Sworn Blood Brothers of Heart and Hand when the 

Cross Trails meet. 

Great brave men from the reclaimed wilds with their toil- 
gnarled hands, 

Big-eyed soldiers of dusky skin from the shifting sands : 

Red-f ezzed troopers from sunshine dales — the lithe Spa- 
his, 

Haughty princes from little lands and silken men of ease. 

9 



TRENCH TALES 



Ye who have followed for Freedom's Flag in this world 

of strife, — 
Brothered your joys and misered your woes in God's 

greater life, — 
Ye who have given your all in all from each town and fen, 
Have vindicated our principles of a Brotherhood of Men! 

Yours are the tales that I fain would tell in my wisps of 

song, 
Yours the deeds I celebrate albeit in faltering tongue, 
Making no poet's claim for fame or for laurels sweet, 
Just telling the tales that you told to me where the Cross 

Trails meet. 



SONG OF THE SAMMIES 

Just give us a place in the trenches, 

And give us the order to charge, 
A spot where the whole earth wrenches, 

And Hell with the Devil at large. 
Barbed wire and the bursting of shell- fire: 

The light of a cannon s red glare: 
Then lead us straight on through the hell-fire, 

And watch us old Sammies get there! 

I am one of the bunch first over, 

They call us the " pioneers," 
They've filled us with honey and clover 

And fed us all up with their cheers. 
They say we're a fine bunch of fighters 

And give us the best that they've got, 
But we feel like some pampered first-nighters 

Along with their miserable lot. 
10 



TRENCH TALES 



They've given us garlands to squander, 

They've feted us morning and night: 
But we think of our comrades out yonder 

And we're wild to be helping them fight. 
We love them for giving swell orders, 

Their welcome was much more than fine, 
But we'd rather be there on the borders, 

And proving our love in the line. 

It isn't their methods we're blaming, 

This training stuff may be all right: 
And I guess that we all do need taming, 

— But, darn it all, we want to fight ! 
We'll swap you our place for a trifle, 

A Sammy won't want but two things: 
Just give him his trusty old rifle 

And a place where the battle-cry rings. 

We've waited three years for our chance, sir, 

We've chafed and we've cursed through it all, 
And now let us "on with the dance," sir, 

And choose our own girls at the ball! 
This waiting around nearly stifles, 

We're wild to go locoed and swear, — 
Just give us our trusty old rifles 

And watch us old Sammies get there! 

Just give us a place in the trenches, 
And give us the order to charge, 

A spot where the whole earth wrenches, 
And Hell with the Devil at large. 

Barbed wire and the bursting of shell-fire: 
The light of the cannons red glare: 
ii 



TRENCH TALES 



Then lead us straight on through the hell-fire, 
And watch us old Sammies get there! 



THE VOLUNTEERS 

Funny, ain't it, me an' you, we didn't want no war, 

I guess we ain't got much idee jes' what we're fightin' for. 

Ther papers sez it's world-wide peace and* red blood 'gin 

the blue, 
I guess that's jes er leetle deep, frien' Bill, fer likes er me 

an' you. 

Remember how it wuz that day when volunteers wuz 

called : 
We didn't know just why we fit an' lots of fellers stalled. 
An' some guy grabs you, Bill, an' sez: "Yer country's 

needin' you ! " 
An' you jes cotton'd up and sez: " I guess I'll stick it 

through." 

" This country's mighty good ter me, I guess it's up to us 

Ter come ercross when she sez ' Come,' no matter what's 
ther fuss! " 

An' then you grabs me by ther arm an' sez: "Jes' look 
a-here, 

We ain't no slackers, is we, Tom? Let's go an' volun- 
teer! " 

Ther ban' wuz playin* " Dixie " an' hit shorely het yer 

blood! 
Ther leetle thrilly goosebumps kind uv popped out where 

we stood. 

13 



TRENCH TALES 



It didn't make much dif'rence, Bill, jes when we fit er 

where ; 
America wuz callin' us, we hed ter volunteer! 

We didn't hate no Germans, Bill. We didn't want no 

fight: 
But somehow we jes hunched as how our Uncle Sam wuz 

right ! 
We never knowed ther reason why, — I guess we never 

keered, — 
America wuz callin' us, an' we, we volunteered! 



IN TRAINING 

Throwing our bombs at a target trench, 

Drilling the whole day through ; 
Sticking our blades in a man of straw, — 

That's a heluva way to do! 
We're learning a bit from your Ordnance books, 
But we all want to see how a scared Hun looks! 

Shooting our guns at a big bull's-eye, 

Squadding to left and right; 
Digging a trench 'neath a clean, clear sky, — 

Say, pal, won't we ever fight? 
Won't we ever lean on the parapet 
And wait for the Boche while the dew's still wet? 

Polishing boots and cleaning our suits, 

Presenting bright arms at drill ; 
Eating our hearts in a damn sham scrap, — 

And now we have got our fill ! 

*3 



TRENCH TALES 



Give us a chance at it hand to hand, 

Where the big game waits in No Man's Land ! 

Give us a chance with the hairy men, 

Where the winds of victory blow ; 
Give us the word, our guns, and then, — 

By damn, sir, watch us go! 
We're " supers " as yet in the game of war, 
But show us a Germ, — and we'll show what we are. 



" GOING IN " 

y Slip, sqush, through the slush, 

Down the crooked lines to the mud ahead: 
Skid, slide, tight and wide, 

Down the tort'rous turnings to the field of dead ! 

Ping, bing, ricochet and sing, 

Little leaden whiners with their strength all spent : 
Wow! Bang! Christmas! how that rang! 

Must have been a whopper from the way she went. 

Look, think, gosh, it's worsen ink, 

Couldn't see your lady if she kissed you one: 

Great damn! Now we've got a jam, 

Never'll hit the trenches till the war's done gone! 

Whe-ow! See that hoosius plow, 

That's a wimpus wombat from the burg of Goop! 
Gee whiz! Looka that old fizz, 

Gwine 'er go to Heaven on a loop the loop! 
*4 



TRENCH TALES 



Hey, guy, stickin' in my eye, 

What ter 'ell you others coming out here for? 
Say, pup, ajn't we filled 'er up? 

Oh, you're gettin' back there while we fight the war! 

Squeeze, sqush, up against the mush, 

Lordy, I'm a-hopin' that the Boche shells miss! 

Oh, boy, won't that trench be joy 

After ploughing, sloughing through a crack like 
this! 

At last! Hold those " rookies " fast, 

Make 'em stop a' peepin' for a blasted Hun ! 

Hey, Jack, where ter 'ell's your pack? 

Couldn't tell you, buddy, but I've got my gun ! 



THE BOY THE STARS AND STRIPES ARE 
PROUD TO OWN 

Say, what's the use of cussing and a melancholy fussing 
When you're muddy, tired and aching in the dome? 

And what's the use of bluing for you knew what you were 
doing 
Wlien you joined the blooming service way back home? 

And what's the use of growling or a grumbling lot of 

howling, 

When you're sent to do your little bit " out there "? 

It never helps the matter just to grunt and crab and 

chatter. 

If you'll smile, you'll find the days are twice as fair. 

15 



TRENCH TALES 



If you'll grin and sing and bubble you'll be dodging lots 
of trouble 
And the work won't hit you nearly half so hard. 
When it's your turn in the trenches — cheer up, pal, the 
coward blenches, 
And you're not a, grumbling slacker, are you, pard ? 

In the winter or the summer if your sector turns a hum- 
mer, 
Pal, you're lucky to be out there in that zone. 
If you'll grin and keep on grinning you'll be winning, 
winning, winning, 
You're the boys the Stars and Stripes are proud to own. 



OUR OLD " DOUGH BOYS " 1 

When it comes to sticking Huns, when it comes to licking 
Huns, 
When it comes to handling Boches kind of rough, 
You can tell old Billy Kaiser (put that homicider wiser) 
That our trusty, crusty " Dough Boys " have the stuff! 
They're the go boys, our old " Dough Boys," 
At the foe, boys, toe to toe, boys, 
Our old rusty, crusty, trusty, fighting " Dough Boys "! 

You can do your best to drop 'em, but, by gum, you just 

can't stop 'em, 
For they're " Berlining " their way on thru your lair! 
You can shoot your minnenwerfers, all your other wenie- 

wursters, 

1 In army palaver, Dough Boy is the term applied to an 
infantryman on account of many gastronomic miracles performed 
in " downing the dough." 

16 



TRENCH TALES 



But they'll get you on the run and keep you there ! 
They're the go boys, our old " Dough Boys," 
At the foe, boys, knock 'em low, boys, 
They're " Berlining " right thru wiene-land, our " Dough 
Boys"! 

Give 'em hell and watch 'em eat it! Give 'em work and 
watch 'em beat it! 
Give 'em anything on earth but " rest awhile," 
Let 'em tip the top at dawning in the chilly, thrilly morn- 
ing, 
And they'll thank you with a vict'ry and a smile! 
They're the go boys, our old " Dough boys," 
At the foe, boys, toe to toe, boys. 
They're the vanguard of our victory, our old " Dough 
Boys"! 



THE " FIGHTING FINN " 

You couldn't hold him in, 
That " Fighting Finn." 
He'd only laugh and grin 
And fight like sin ! 

Grenades were all he knew: 
And he could do 
More damage when he threw 
Than mortars, too! 

He'd crawl out to a hole 
And, like a mole, 
He'd burrow to the jowl, 
And then he'd bowl ! 
17 



TRENCH TALES 



All night he'd lie and throw : 
And we could know 
Whenever he let go 
A nasty blow! 

Far from the German sap 
The tap, t*p, tap, 
Of Maxims answered rap, 
Rap, rap for rap! 

To catch the " Fighting Finn " 
They tried like sin: 
But always he would win 
And laugh and grin! 

They sent a bunch one night 
To get him right: 
They circled left and right 
And had him tight. 

The " Fighting Finn " found out 

Too late, no doubt ; 

So wheeling round about 

He threw a clout! 

He only had five " buns " 
To blow up Huns: 
And bullets from Boche guns 
Were rained in tons! 

He blew a sap, that Finn, 
And died a-grin: 
And, while he didn't win, 
He fought like sin — 
1 8 



TRENCH TALES 



For later in the day 
We passed that way, 
And thirteen Bodies lay 
Beside his clay! 

So when we brought him in, 
Our " Fighting Finn," 
Came echoes 'bove the din 
" He played to win! " 



SONG OF THE CAMIONEERS 

They're fighting hard in the lines tonight and the hand 
grenades are out, 

The call comes in for Section D, you can hear the Ser- 
geants shout. 

We're off, we're off, on a war-torn road to the tune of a 
bursting shell, 

And we'll take the boys the stuff they need or we'll all 
get blown to hell. 

For they're firing, firing on the camions, 
Star shells lighting up the camions, 
Shrapnel bursting o'er the camions, 
But who gives a damn for that? 

The camions are loaded deep with shells and the German 

shells are near, 
They're bursting on the road, my boys, you can hear them 

loud and clear! 

19 



TRENCH TALES 



But it's Ho for the fighting boys out there, we're taking 

the stuff they need, 
And we'll give her a little extra gas and we'll cram her 

in highest speed. 

For they're firing, firing on the camions, 
Star shells lighting up the camions, 
Shrapnel bursting o'er the camions, 
But who gives a damn for that? 

Oh, we're happy as larks and light and free and our days 

are full of fun : 
We never mind the work they give and we never mind a 

gun: 
We're singing the songs of college days and the girls of 

Uncle Sam, 
And we're doing our bit and we're proud of it and nobody 

gives a damn! 

When they're firing, firing on the camions, 
Star shells lighting up the camions, 
Shrapnel bursting o'er the camions, 
But who gives a damn for that? 

" OVER THE TOP " 

" Over the Top," where the marmite whistles. 

Out where the star shell hisses and beams, 
Out where the night in agony bristles, 

Cold steel glimmers and cold steel gleams, — 
Out where the Reaper tallies and reckons, 

Out where Beginnings stop, 
Out there where Victory leads us and beckons, — 

" Over the Top!* 

ao 



TRENCH TALES 



" Steady! Quiet! God, it's horrid 

To stand wildly straining there 
When your blood is leaping torrid, 

Hun sent shell-ore landing fair, 
Screaming as they clear the border; 

All you do is dodge and flop. 
How you long for that sharp order, — 

" Over the Top ! " 

Pals you know are killed beside you, 

Helpless, standing in the night, 
Lots you care whate'er betide you 

If they'd only let you fight. 
Straining there like dull, dumb cattle, 

Won't this shelling ever stop! 
How you lust for joyous battle 

"Over the Top!" 

Men are sobbing, breaking, crying, 

Shell-proof hearts in terror blench 
Sightless of their comrades dying 

Helpless, mud-hipped in the trench; 
Just to break out, — to get moving ! 

Charge and fight and never stop! 
Red-eyed, reckless, jostling, shoving, 

"Over the Top!" 

" Over the Top ! " — our blood is boiling, 

Nerves are breaking on the rack, 
Shells are bursting where we're toiling, 

Yet we cannot answer back ! 
Let us fight in manlike manner, 

Let our old machine guns pop, 
Let us carry on our banner 

"Over the Top!" 

ai 



TRENCH TALES 



Carry on our banner steady, 

Winning to the German wall : 
And if need be, sir, we're ready; 

Only let us fight and fall. 
If we die, let's be ascending, 

Charging forward when we drop! 
Give us, sir, a soldier's ending 

"Over the Top!" 

" Over the Top" where the marmite whistles, 

Out where the star shell hisses and beams, 
Out where the night in agony bristles, 

Cold steeh glimmers and cold steel gleams; 
Out where the Reaper tallies and reckons, 

Out where Beginnings stop; 
Out where Victory leads us and beckons 

" Over the Top! " 

HOW PAT O'SHEA GOT THE KAISER'S GOAT 

{A true story of happenings among the Irish Fusilliers) 

Bill Kaiser, Lord of Prussia, 

Struck out his huge mailed fist 
To humble France and Russia, 

Shroud England in a mist, 
Pick Europe like a vulture, 

And then, where'er he will, 
Uplift them with his Kultur. 

" Oh, Gott Mit Uns! " quoth Bill. 

He jumped on little Belgium 

And made a mighty seize, 
Quoth Bill : " Ain't I a Hellion ? 

I'll bring 'em to their knees." 

22 



TRENCH TALES 



And in his egoed manner, 

He gave unto his Huns 
A bloody battle banner 

That bore his " Gott Mit Uns." 

They carried it while beating 

The foe to gay Paree : 
They carried it retreating 

Back to their own country. 
They never tired of showing 

This banner in the fray 
Till Pat O'Shea got going 

And grabbed their goat one day. 

He got him up a banner 

And used the Boche device: 
He used it in such manner 

It turned their blood to ice. 
The winter had come coldly 

When Pat flung it to view 
And there in letters boldly 

Was: "We've Got Mit-tuns too!" 



SARGINT JOHNSING, PHILOSOPHER 1 

'When yo' heahs er shell er cummin — 

Flop! 
Eff yo' heahs de varmint hummin', — 

Drop!" 
Yis, they'll tell yo' dat, me deah, 

1 After hearing a lecture on how to dodge shelta and then 
another telling that the muzzle velocity of a large rifle — 3-inch 
to 8-inch — is about twice the speed of sound. 

23 



TRENCH TALES 



But yose nebber gwine ter heah 
Uv dem obuses er cummin' twell dey's gone. 

Ain't 
it 
so? 

O, hits easy f er ter order : 
"Flop!" 
When dey's hibernatin', brudder: 

"Drop!" 
But dem shells goes twic't es fast 
Es ole soun' w'en dey scoots past, 
An* you'll nebber heah 'em cummin' twell dey's gone ! 

Ain't 
it 
so? 

Yis, I sees sum new recrooters 

Flop, 
W'en dey tinks dey heahs some scooters 

Drop. 
In de groun' dey goes a-scourin', 
But de guns dey hearn wus our'n, 
An' de shells dey hearn a-cummin' wus done gone! 

Ain't 
it 
so? 

" Eff it ain't aimed jes' right at yo\ 

Flop; 
Eff agin' de groun' right flat you' 

Drop, 
Yo' is safe from them eclats," 

34 



TRENCH TALES 



Eff dey don't Ian' whar yo' was, 

Caze yo'll nebber heah dem cummin' twell dey's gone! 

Ain't 
it 
so? 



So I takes me chancet widout er 

Flop, 
When I heahs er woppin' powder 

Drop! 
Fer I nebber sees ther uses 
Uv er dodgin' dem obuses 

Wot yo'll nebber heah er cummin' twell dey's gone! 

Ain't 
it 
so? 



So, white folks, yo' tells de udders 

How ter flop ! 
Expirate me warlike brudders 

'Bout yo' drop ! 
Dis heah nigger wants er dugout 
Where he'll nebber stick his mug out, — 
W'en dey heahs er shell er cummin', — he's dun gone! 

Ain't 
it 
so? 



25 



TRENCH TALES 



BACK THERE 

It isn't the shelling that gets our nerve 

Out there where the eclats whine. 
It isn't the trenches that crump and curve 

With rain and the mud and brine. 
It isn't the morning, the cold, grey dawn, 

When over the top we go. 
It isn't the fearing of days unborn 

Or the terror of ice and snow. 

No, it isn't the hurt nor the horror we mind, 
It's the thought of the folks Back There ; 

The mothers and sweethearts we've left behind 
And the fears that we know they wear, — 

— The peaceless fears and the ceaseless tears, 
Because of the lots they care. 

We'd willingly suffer to do our bit 

And smile as we onward roam, 
But, damn it, our hurtings aren't part of it 

With those of the folks back home. 
So it isn't the losing of some good pard 

That cuts like a red-hot knife; 
It's thinking his mother will take it hard, 

Or maybe his kids and wife. 

His wife and his kids, or a slim, sweet girl, 

Or a mother with angel face, 
That love him better than all the world, — 

Who's going to take his place? 
We've plenty of others the gap to stem 
But he's all, — all in the world to them ! 
26 



TRENCH TALES 



THE USUAL GROUCH 

s 

"Oh, it's fine to be a dough boy! " You can hear the red 

cords say. 
" They can sleep in nice warm dugouts while we have to 

duel all day!" 
Yes, you're a bloody bunch of duelists, you and all your 

rival Huns, 
When you start your daring duel, tell me where you point 
your guns ? 

■ 
You point 'em at the Infantry, the Infantry, the Infan- 
try; 
You point 'em at the Infantry, — 
— That's a damn fine way to duel! 

You draw a bead on Hans and Fritz and blaze away a lot, 
And Red Cord Heinie draws on us and answers shot for 

shot! 
You're safe and sound, and Heinie, too, but Hans and 

Fritz and us, — 
Just where the hell do we get off in this here dueling fuss ? 

You both shoot at the Infantry, the Infantry, the In- 
fantry; 
You both shoot at the Infantry, — 
That's a damn fine way to duel! 

Of course we know you catch it hot when Heinie fires 

at you, 
But why can't you just shut him up and let us have our 

"do"? 

27 



TRENCH TALES 



Go maul away at Heinie, if you like to blaze and blitz, 
And blow him back to Berlin, — but leave us Hans and 
Fritz, 

For we'll clean up for the Infantry, the Infantry, the 

Infantry; 
For we'll clean up for the Infantry, — 
So let US have OUR duel! 



THE "JACKASS BATTERY" 

(The love name for the machine-gun men, due to the fact that 
mules pull the carts) 

Rat-tat-tat, on the firing line 

That's where the "Jackass Batt'ries" shine! 

Cuss us a lot in a peaceful spot 
But you'll yell for us when the Mausers whine! 

In training camps you call us scamps, 

The " Jackass Battery," 
Along the roads you joke our loads 

And pun in howling glee. 
You think our mules are owlish fools, — 

But take it, Bud, from me: 

It's — " Roust about on the firing line! 
Let the ' Jackass Batt'ry ' thru ! 

Give 'em elbow grease for the quick-fire piece ! 
Make way for the ' Jackass ' crew ! " 

When all goes well you hate like hell 
To see us place a gun 

28 



TRENCH TALES 



Where you are near because you fear 

An answer from the Hun. 
And so you cuss and raise a fuss 

To keep us on the run. 

But it's — " Right this way," on the firing line 

When the Boche begin to come. 
" Can't you stop those Huns with the quick-fire guns? 

Bring the ' Jackass Batt'ry ' home! " 

The Bodies, too, hate just like you 

To see us open up 
From some well hole or some shell hole 

Or some old crater cup. 
For well they know that where we " Go! " 

Their regiment won't sup ! 

For it's — Rat-tat-tat, on the firing line, 
That's where the " Jackass Batt'ries " shine! 
With just two good guns we can stop those Huns 
For a hundred yards on the line! 

Rat-tat, — on the firing line, — 

The line that the grey wave seeks, — 

He'll come, will the Hun, then halt and run 
When the " Jackass Batt'ry " speaks! 



THE STAR-SHELL COUNTRY 

Curse it, revile it and blame it! 

Call it " No Man's Land." 
Cut it and pack it with shell holes, 

Shun it on every hand ! 
29 



TRENCH TALES 



Call ft the spawn of misfortune, — 
Yet if you're there " To Do " 

YouVe got to admit, old fellow, 
It's moulding a man out of you! 

Shrouded in hellish beauty, 

Bathed in its myriad lights, 
Weird from its greenish star shells, 

Red from its million fights! 
More fickle than ever a woman, 

Untrue when you think it best, — 
Unloved, unhallowed, inhuman, — 

But God! it puts strength in your chest! 

It's meaner than army hard tack, 

It's fuller of holes than cheese, 
As hard to digest as lobster, 

And looks like a bad disease! 
It's worse than the morning after, 

And visits from mother-in-law ; 
But it's full to the brim of laughter 

If you've got the set to your jaw! 

You've got to go there to love it, 

You've got to bathe in its hate: 
You've got to fall by its wayside, — 

But, boy, it'll pull you straight! 
Go over the top in the morning 

While the barbed wire glistens grey, 
See red in the hush of dawning 

And damned if you don't feel gay! 

You'll love its adventures and romance, 
You'll love its dangers and thrills : 
30 



TRENCH TALES 



Its trench-seared, mud-wallowed valleys, 
Its grizzled, gun-studded hills! 

You'll love its victorious children 

(The Khaki, the Grey and the Blue) — 

I say, if you haven't been drafted, 
Old pal, it's up to you! 



THE GAS 

God, but it's lonesome out here in the night! 

Out here in the sentinel cell, 
'With the traitorous gleam of a rocket for light, 

Or the fitful glare of a shell. 
Nothing to see but the cruel barbed wire 

And the craters in No Man's Land: 
The swift, red flash of the German's fire 

And empties agleam on the sand! 

I hope we have quiet and peace out here, 

For tomorrow I leave for my home 
(The first time I've left for over a year) — 

Mother, your boy has come! 
Oh, won't she be glad, that dear mother o' mine, 

With the silver of love in her hair 
And the eyes that I long to see happily shine 

As she knits in the old willow chair! 

Oh, I can hardly wait for the morning to come ! 

Just think, she 11 be waiting for me! 
My brave little girl, your boy's coming home, 

Coming back to his sweetest Marie ! 
For one month of love, of home and of joy, 

Picnics on the banks of Twin Creeks : 
3* 



TRENCH TALES 



Just a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving boy, 

Who's back from the Front for four weeks. 

I never did know what a wonderful place 

My home and my Land could be. 
It's branded me deep — time cannot erase — • 

It's God's country calling to me! 
I long to be back, if just for a spell, 

To play and to romp as of yore : 
Say, that was a funny kind of a shell ! 

I never heard that burst before. 

The dances we gave at the old A. A. C, 

You betcher I'll swing 'em a curve! 
Say, what in the devil's the matter with me? 

Those shells are getting my nerve! 
They're not very close, yet somehow they seem — 

They don't burst like any I know: — 
That's it, — they explode with a slovenly gleam, — 

But forget it! Tomorrow I go 

Back from this hell of sleepless nights: 

Back from the blood and the slime: 
Back from the cruel and unceasing fights: 

And, God, it's just coming in time! 
My nerves are all jagged ; my thoughts wildly seethe, 

I'm sick of this horrible mess! 
The air is all heavy, — I can hardly breathe. — 

It can't be — that those shells — were gas ! 

It must be! I'll warn those back there in the line: 

Hello! It's the gas ... a new kind: 
You can't see it or smell it (my mask — no . . . 
that's fine!) 

3* 



TRENCH TALES 



I'll take care of those who're behind — 
My mask — I can't wear it! I've got to call up 

And warn all the fellows back there. 
The gas gongs — for God's sake, send warning right 
up! 

It's the gas, — and it's over us — square ! 

My mask — I can't see it ! They're coming, — the 
Huns! 

See, they're cutting the cruel barbed wire. 
They're coming — OUR BOYS! The spat of 
trench guns! 

See the Boches fall back as they fire ! 
I can't see. What's the matter ? Central, Hello! 

Give me Mother. . . . Won't peace ever come? 
Tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow, I go. . . . 

Mother, your boy — has — come — home ! 



SARGINT PUD MACNETT 

Say, did I ever tell ther story of old Sargint Pud Mac- 

Nett, 
Ther king of all ther Dough Boys when it come ter 

bayonet ? 
No? Then, pass me down a pretzel an' er bubblin' pot o' 

sud, 
An' I'll spin it fer yer benefit — ther yarn o' Sargint Pud. 

Don't I min' jes how he tuk us when we rookies come up 

green, 
An' ther Sarge he starts ter cussin' an' er ventin' ov his 

spleen : 

33 



TRENCH TALES 



" Jab it ! Stab it ! Like yer meant it ! " — at thet grinnin' 

man o' straw. 
" Use yer bay 'net like yer loved it! Wot ter 'ell yer tink 

it's for?" 

When we'd jabbed his gorl-darned dummy till ther wusn't 

nawthin' left, 
An' we'd jumped his muddy trenches, then he tuck us on 

hisself : 
" Yer' re ther nerve," he used ter tell us, " uv ther hull 

damn regimint! 
Bay'nets all thet's good fer Germans. Go an' get 'em 

when yer're sint ! 

" Jes' remember when yer git thar thet yer're scrappin' 

han' ter han', 
An' they ain't no Ten Commandments thar, — out thar in 

No Man's Land ! 
Fer it's yer or him, my hearties, wot will wiggle in ther 

mud. 
It's ther meanest kind o' killin', is ther bay'net," sez old 

Pud. 

■ 

When we crawled up ter ther trenches over half er million 

holes, 
Sloughin' ter ther ears in mud rot an' a-cussin' uv our 

souls, 
They wus shootin' like ther devil, an' ther Sargint sez 

ter me: 
" We'll get goin', 'tout de sweety, Corp'ral Jones," he sez, 

sez he. 

Sure we didn't do much waitin' ; we jes' piled up on ther 
top 

34 



TRENCH TALES 



An' ther Capt'n hedn't started when he done er circus 

flop, 
An' he crumpled like er gas bag, an' ther Sargint sez ter 

me: 
" Jab yer bay'net in their stummicks, Corp'ral Jones," he 

sez, sez he. 

Thank yer, yes, anuther pretzel an' er little wet o' sud — 
Then we crope up 'hind the barrage — grippin', slippin' 

in ther mud : 
When we hits ther fust Boche trenches wusn't nawthin' 

doin' ther: 
Jes' some muddy, bloody Germans an' as dead as ticks 

they were ! 

So we stumbled on ther second an' we found 'em in ther 

muck, 
And I jabbed a German bruiser an' my gorldarn bay'net 

stuck 
So I couldn't yank it backwards; then ther Sargint sez 

ter me: 
" Jab er cartridge in yer rifle and then shoot it out!" 

sez he. 

Sure, ther boys wus doin' nicely, — hed ther Bodies on 

ther run, — 
When I blew thet fat ole German sort of wigglin' off my 

gun: 
An' I sloughed on up an' after, an' I saw old Sarge Mac- 

Nett 
Playin' rings around five Boches with his bloody bayonet. 

He wus jabbin' like ther devil — wus our dried-up Sargint 
Pud, 

35 



TRENCH TALES 



An' ther bruisers blew like horses from er dodgin' in ther 

mud. 
It wus light es dear ole Broadway when them balloon 

star-shells flew 
An' I come up hell fer leather jes' as Sargint copped him 

two. 

I come slidin' down ther sap-head es er German N. CO. 
Yanked er pistol frum his holster an' fer Pud he let er go! 
Drilled him thru his bloody kicker; an' ther Sargint howls 

ter me: 
" Run 'em round here ter my bay'net, Corp'ral Jones," he 

sez, sez he. 

So I drives 'em up ther sap-head ; an' ther yeller cowards 

beg 
When they sees ole Pud still jabbin', — tho' he hadn't got 

much leg. 
I wus half a min' ter take 'em when ther Sargint sez ter 

me: 
" It's expensive ter feed pris'ners, Corp'ral Jones," he sez, 

sez he. 

Gimme jes' anuther pretzel an' er partin' whiff o' sud, 

An' we'll drink ter thet ole devil wot wus known as Sar- 
gint Pud. 

Yes, they got him 'fore 'twas over, with er pesky piece o' 
lead 

Wot come howlin' from some obus, an' it plunked him in 
ther head. 

So I grabbed his feelless flapper, an' ther Sargint sez ter 

me: 
" Don't forgit ter use yer bay'net, Corp'ral Jones," he sez, 

sez he. 

36 



TRENCH TALES 



" Shootin's too damn good fer Germans. Pin 'em squirm- 
in' in ther mud! " 

An' he kicked out like er soldier, — cussin' Huns, — did 
Sargint Pud. 



" C'EST LA GUERRE " 

In these lines is an attempt to embody the wonderful French 

spirit. No matter the suffering, they smile and say: 

" C'est la guerre." 

Working like a slaver, sloughing in the muck, 
Plowing slowly forward, half the time you're stuck, 
Bullets whistle 'round you, shells scream overhead, 
Makes you feel like quitting, kind o' wish you're dead. 
Yet you want to stick it, something makes you, pard 
(Many million others working just as hard) ; 
Sure you're not a slacker, grin and greet 'em there: 
" C'est la guerre, boys, c'est la guerre! " 

Liquid fire and gases, hand grenades and shells; 
Deadly screaming devils, bursting, burning hells; 
Weary nights of fighting, tired days of guns 
Make you think the wounded are the lucky ones. 
Yet you do your durndest, — never let a whine, — 
For you know your country wants you in the line. 
So you keep on going, smiling everywhere: 
11 C'est la guerre, boys, c'est la guerre! " 

Freezing in the trenches, starving any time, 
Helping out a comrade wounded in the line. 
Lots you care for empires, lots you care for kings; 
Home's your only palace, — love's your world of things. 
Yet your country called you and you answered it — 

37 



TRENCH TALES 



Had to prove your manhood; proud to do your bit. 
Laughing at your troubles, smiling everywhere: 
" C'est la guerre, boys, c'est la guerre! " 



EN PERMISSION 

Sipping my whisky and soda 

Here in the flare and flame, 
I'm watching the same old soldiers 

.Playing the same old game. 
Toasting the same old bright eyes, 

Singing the same old song, 
Drinking the same old red stuff — 

God, but the years are long! 

Listen, you fellows, one moment: 
Look at me sitting alone, — 
I am only a youngster 

Barely turned twenty and one. 
Blessed with a brave old family, 

Favored with worldly clay, 
Got my degree at college; 

Everything came my way! 

Yet I was young and foolish, 

Never could play the game ; 
Always stopped by the wayside 

Fanning each little flame. 
Roses were all the world meant, 

Life was a grand sweet song; 
Down the Broad Highway I wandered 

Gadding gaily along. 
38 



TRENCH TALES 



Then — then I met the woman/ 

God, how she set me afire! 
Fairer than ever a dream was, — 

Beautiful! More than desire! 
Lips with the bloom of promise, 

Passion to depths untold, 
Eyes that were always laughing, 

Hair of a sun-tinged gold. 

Years would have named her maiden 

Old tho' she was in sin ; 
Hers was the creed of woman: 

" Laugh and the devil win ! " 
She answered my burning passion 

And loved me just for a spell 
She showed me her way to Heaven, — 

It started me down to hell! 

We hit the high places a season, 

And while we were going — we went ! 
Oh, for the hours I've squandered! 

Oh, for the thousands I've spent! 
She smiled and my life was sunshine, 

She laughed and the angels played, 
She wept, and I loved her better, — 

God, if she'd only stayed ! 

But she was only a woman 

With only a woman's creed, 
And I was only a youngster 

Unused to a woman's greed. 
She threw me down for another, 

Rich, and fresh for the dance. 
39 



TRENCH TALES 



And I, indebted and lonely, 

Am buried somewhere in France. 



Simply a man of the Legion 

Trying to fight and forget ; 
Doing my bit as a man should, 

Hoping they'll get me yet. 
It's easy to die as a soldier 

Facing the battered foe, 
But it's hard to live with a memory 

Dragging you down below. 

Give me the star-shells flaring, 

Give me the rocket's beam; 
There where the cold eyes staring, — 

Cold as the marmites scream. 
Give me the world inhuman, 

But never a woman's smile! — 
Never the eyes of woman — 

Brother, it's not worth while! 

Sipping my whisky and soda, 

Watching you play the game, 
Thinking you're just a soldier 

Bound to get used the same. 
Glutten your fill of women, 

Drink like a spongey thing, 
Then — when the furlough's over, 

Sing, you poor devil, sing! 



40 



TRENCH TALES 



"ON LES AURA!" 

The battle cry of the French, meaning, " We will get 'em ! " 

Down the grim, shell-shaken roadways where the crimson 
cannon play, 

Where the rocks and dirt are geysered : where they camou- 
flage the way: 

There's a laughing line of heroes marching, singing to the 
fray: 

" On les aura! On les aura! " 

Through the long, long weary hours as the troop-trains 

onward fly 
To the nameless Land out Yonder looming red against 

the sky, 
They are bringing us new courage as they thunder singing 
"by: 

" On les aura! On les aura! " 

In the wake of shell and shrapnel, in the maelstrom of the 
mill, 

They are charging ever onward with a spirit hell can't 
kill! 

Striking straight and strong for Freedom, — grim, deter- 
mined, — singing still : 

'■ On les aura! On les aura! " 

They are France's own brave children, — sons of age-old 

lighting sires, 
Men whom centuries name as masters of the flick'ring 

bivouac fires: 
Men who know not how to falter in the work which 
France inspires: 

lis les auront! lis les aurontf 
4i 



TRENCH TALES 



Allies, hear their stirring war-cry, — heed their spirit ever 

gay — 

Join them crying: "We shall get them! " to the great 

Triumphant Day! 
Let your voices ring through history, let your war-cry 

cleave the fray: 

" On les aura! On les aura! " 



THE MASTERS OF NO MAN'S LAND 

I am one of the Foreign Legion, — been at it the whole 

damned time, 
Been slammed in each hottest region and wallowed in 

blood and in slime, 
I've fought for the sheer love of fighting and killed with 

a triumphant yell; 
But now I am done with my fighting, and the Doc says 

I'll never get well. 

You'll say we are cut-throats and villains, we men of the 

Legion, all right: 
You'll say we are reckless and foolish — but damn it, 

you know we can fight ! 
You throw us the scum of your gutters, the hopeless, the 

broken : — and then 
We give them the love of the Legion, and, — God ! — how 

it turns them to men. 

I joined with a Russian Anarchist; the son of a bank- 
rupted peer; 

A Frenchman whose love had renounced him ; a negro with 
only one ear; 

4* 



TRENCH TALES 



A preacher whose parish had balled him ; a Finn ; a Turk, 

and a Kite — 
And I was a lad in his twenties, just longing for romance 

and fight. 



They hailed us as " Blues " when we got there, — at Sidi- 

bel-Abbes, Algiers. 
We worked and we fought and we quarreled; we wept 

and we laughed through our tears; 
We longed for a good honest battle, with our banners and 

men pouring forth — 
Then the Germans went smashing on Belgium, and we 

hurried like mad for the North ! 



We turned them out there in the open, we beat them like 

rats to their holes: 
We blew them right out of their trenches and burrowed 

beneath them like moles: 
We met them and shattered their charges : we licked them 

with gun and grenade! 
Wherever the fighting was hottest, — the Legion was there 

undismayed ! 



My friends paid the red toll of battle, — each died with 
his face to the foe ; 

The Russian and Frenchman fell charging ; the rest were 
with me in the snow 

On the night when we seven got cut off (O God, I re- 
member it well), 

Out there in a big frozen shell-hole in the midst of that 
living hell ! 

43 



TRENCH TALES 



You know what it's like in the Winter when the drear 

cold stabs to the bone, 
And you shiver out there in the trenches, — your fighting 

blood shriveled and gone, 
And the Boches keep shooting and shelling, and many a 

man curses his God ; 
But there's never a whine from the Legion, — those men 

that you know with a nod. 

The Finn had a broken machine gun and only a couple 

of strips ; 
The Turk and the Preacher were loaded with grenades 

that hung from their hips; 
The rest of us each had a rifle, and somebody struck up a 

tune, — 
The famous song of the Legion, — as the Boches came 

over the dune. 

Surrender? Why, man, we were happy! We shot and 
we sang with a will ! 

The cold and the snow were forgotten as those thick- 
headed pigs climbed the hill! 

At our first shots the leading line melted ; our Hotchkiss 
sent fear to the core ; 

So we laughed at their clumsy retreating and begged them 
to send us some more ! 

But, damn them! they won't fight in the open! They 

crawled in their holes and with shells 
They levelled the ground all around us, and we cheered 

at their shots with our yells ! 
Then the smoke cleared up just a little, — the Finn and 

the Preacher lay dead 
And the Kite was a-kicking and squirming, with only the 

half of a head ! 

44 



TRENCH TALES 



And the Boches came pouring out at us (we hadn't a 

Hotchkiss this time) 
So we met them with rifles and bayonets, sunk up to our 

knees in the slime. 
We whites went down in an instant with hardly the time 

for a cheer, 
But the space was soon cleared around us by the negro 

with only one ear. 

His face was all bloody and horrid ; he was swinging his 

gun like a flail, 
And he grinned in a terrible manner at the sight of the 

Boche turning pale. 
Then I found a Hun automatic and fired at the beasts 

from the ground 
As they rushed us again with their bayonets — and the 

one-eared black went down. 

Then a cheer like the bursting of thunder ! And pouring 

in over the cone, 
Were our boys who had finally found us! The Legion 

had come for its own ! 
And the Boches turned tail, helter-skelter, as they do 

when the Legion's at hand, 
For they may be the men with no country, but they're 

Masters of No Man's Land! 

The Doc says I'm done with my fighting; he doubts if 

I'll weather the storm, 
But I'm happy to know as I lie here that I've once worn 

that plain uniform: 
That I've fought and I've bled for the Legion — that my 

name lives as one of that band — 
The men who haven't a country, — the Masters of No 

Man's Land! 

45 



TRENCH TALES 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF CORPORAL CONE 

Ther ain't no use in talkin' 'bout yer dashin' calveliers 
An' yer thrillin' wild-eyed charges wid ther bullets 'round 

yer ears. 
This ain't no war fer romance wid er han'chief in yer 

hat — 
It means workin' like er nigger,--- but it's fun, fer all o' 

that! 

Fust time yer hits ther trenches yer mought hate it wussen 

hell — 
Fer thet awful lonesom' feelin's like ter make er strong 

man yell. 
An' ther's mostly nuthin' doin' an' yer lies thar like er rat 
Wid yer bed in muddy water, — but it's fun, fer all o* 

that! 

Yer kin pipe ther big 'uns screamin' as they whistles over- 
head, 

An' ther night-time alius dotted wid ther flashes green an' 
red, 

An' ther Boches over yonder: yer kin see whur they is at 

Cookin' up some shady bus'ness — but it's fun, fer all o' 
that! 

Then yer ketch it, an' it's hellish ! — shells are bustin' 

right an' lef 
Pals yer know'd are blowed to pieces till yer's almos' by 

yersef. 



46 



TRENCH TALES 



Star-shells lightin' up ther slaughter — yer kin heah ther 

rockets spat, 
Lamp them "typewriters" er drummin', — but it's fun, 

f er all o' that ! 

Nawthin' doin'! God! Hit's awful standin' strainin' 

in ther line, 
When yer cannot hun,t er dugout an' yer cannot let er 

whine : 
When yer're shot at by them Bodies an' yer can't git 

whar they're at ; 
An' yer hates 'em wussen poisen, — but it's fun, fer all o' 

that! 

" Charge! " Hit feels like Heaven ter git movin' under 

fire, 
Feels like Glory ter start yellin', stumblin' on across ter 

wire. 
" Bay 'nets fixed an' give it to 'em!" heah the Lewis's 

rat-a-tat : 
Cut aloose like some ole injun — but it's fun, fer all o' 

that! 

Stickin', cussin', jabbin', shootin', cryin' lak er little kid 
God knows yer can't tell what yer're doin' : " Kill him, 

crack his German lid ! " 
u Seein' red," that's what we calls it for yer knows yer 

on a bat 
Like er sodger out on pay night, — but it's fun, fer all o' 

that! 

Groanin', moanin', yellin', cryin', writhin' men as kill an' 

cuss, 
Till yer're stabbin' most at nothin', wond'ring whar's ther 

hellish fuss. 

47 



TRENCH TALES 



" Quiet, boys ! Hold back, they're beaten ! " Fritz is 

beaten good and flat. 
An' yer're reelin', fallin', singin', — but it's fun, fer all 

o' that ! 



Next yer knows yer're feelin' rotten, all turned up on 

some white bed — 
Kind of wonderin' if yer're livin* er if maybe yer are 

dead. 
An' er white-dressed purty angel gives yer paw er little 

pat — 
Then yer thinks yer're sho' in Heaven, — but it's fun, fer 

all o' that! 



Ther's a pal what " went in " wid yer, an' he tells yer 
what yer've done, — 

Captured some besotted outpost by what seemed like end- 
less run. 

Yer is jest er little cog-wheel, — never knows quite whar 
yer're at, 

But yer're helpin' win ther vict'ry — an' it's big fun, jes 
fer that! 



THE SAPPER PIONEERS 

You ask me to tell you a story tonight, 

A story of times " out there." 
Of the shell-lit night and the smoke-dimmed day, 
Of the men you love and the game they play, 
Of the red-rimmed dawn and the twilight grey, 

And the wonderful deeds " out there." 

4 8 



TRENCH TALES 



You savvy the Sappers, the pioneers, 

With the trench dust caked to their very ears, 

And callouses on their flappers. 
The boys with the sand at the head of the band, 
Who pilot our way over No Man's Land: 
Who bridge all the ruts and burrow the sand. 

The jacks of all trades — the Sappers. 
If the soldiers retire, 
It's " String up the wire — 

Just put in a call for the Sappers! " 

You know what it's like when you're crossing a swamp 
And the ground is all boggy and everything's damp, 

And the sky lets loose sudden clappers. 
It was much worse out there — a whole week of rain, 
The shell craters full — the trench wouldn't drain, 
And we had to move forward dry quarters to gain, 

So naturally, we yelled for the Sappers. 
Oh, the ground was a muck, 
And the infantry stuck, 

What ter hell could we do without Sappers? 

They started up prompt to drain out the wells, 
And 'long with the water 'twas soon raining shells, 

And cowardly bullets from tappers; 
.Yet forward they went; we followed behind, 
A-scraping what measly shelter we'd find, 
No matter the strafing, they seemed not to mind, — 
Those sons of a gun, the Sappers. 
If shelled for a while 
They worked harder and smiled, 
All grins and much mud, — those Sappers! 



49 



TRENCH TALES 



They helped us across to where we were sent, 
Then dropped in behind and cheered as we went, 

And gave us a hand with their clappers. 
They were muddy and bloody and all shot up when 
Dry quarters were gained by most of our men. 
They'd started out fifty and ended up ten! 

But they'd got what they'd gone for, — those Sappers. 
No matter the work, 
They never will shirk, 

They're the nerve of the army, — those Sappers. 

Alone in the night, hip-deep in the mire, 
They're ducking the shells and stringing the wire, 

And freezing the ends of their flappers. 
They're building a bomb-proof or digging a mine, 
They're helping the fellows all over the line, 
They're chock full of jokes, but never a whine — 

Those jolly good fellows, — the Sappers. 
They're there with the sand, 
And No Man's Land 

Will treasure its memory of Sappers! 



BILLY VOLUNTEER 

Happy-go-lucky volunteer, — 

Billy, I guess his name was, — 
Just couldn't wait when the bugle called 

Wanted to see what the game was. 
Folks didn't think he was steady enough - 

Rather allowed he was foolish: 
" War will be over in just a short time." 

But Bill was inclined to be mulish. 
«o 



TRENCH TALES 



So off without cheers or fanfare of drums, 
God speeded our Billy to France. 

Happy-go-lucky volunteer, 
Anxious to take his chance! 

First to venture the submarines: 

First to be welcomed "out there ,, ; 
Warming to cheers of His Sister Land 

When his own Land had only a stare. 
First to share death with his Brothers in Arms,- 

Blazers of Trails, — and men! 
Giving Old Glory her place in the Front, 

Leading Old Glory to win! 
Stemming the tide with his boyish thews ; 

Yielding his life to chance — 
Happy-go-lucky volunteer 

Buried — Somewhere in France! 



JUST SAMMY 

Nobody knew him, — nobody cared 

Just how uppy or down he fared. 

His was the " losingest lot " of all, 

He heard no cheers nor trumpeter's call, 

He had no dreams of laurels fair, 

His was the " know "; he was " just there! " 

Father to rookies : helping them out, 
Making them soldiers trained for the bout: 
Bearing the brunt of a million men, 
Training them, shielding them, leading them in! 
Sammy, plain Sammy, who ate his baked beans 
In Mexico, China or Philippines. 

5i 



TRENCH TALES 



Trusted and loved by private and boss, 
Sammy will win or share others' loss. 
War is his Mistress; death is his chance. 
Sammy is leading them somewhere in France! 

JOHN SELECTMAN 

John Selectman, proud and tall, 
Bravely heard his Country's call. 
Waited, fired by no wild flame: 
Answered, like a man, his name. 
His were cheers and laurels sweet, 
Nation's praises at his feet: 
Trusting God, and not to chance, 
John Selectman went to France. 

Trained, equipped with worldly best, 
Steadfast hewed he to his quest. 
Strong of arm and nerved for war, 
John Selectman will go far. 
His will be the victor's name: 
His will be the niche in fame. 
God, his Country, Duty, Love, 
Unconquered, ever onward move! 
Right will win, — there is no chance ! 
John Selectman wins for France! 

CAPTAIN DIXIE 

You're like the land that gave you birth, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie, 
The finest and the best on earth, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie. 
5* 



TRENCH TALES 



No more you'll hear our loud acclaim 
As charging on we cry your name: 
" For Dixie ! Strike through flare and flame ! 
To our Captain ! " 

Yet we remember what you gave, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie, 
Your life our worthless ones to save, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie, 
We'll not forget that horrid spell, 
The clustered group, — the bomb that fell, — 
And how you smothered it — too well, 

Our Captain! 

The bomb hissed in yet no one fled, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie, 
Our hearts stood still, our souls seemed dead, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie. 
But like a flash you dashed for it, 
And falling where the bomb had lit 
You covered. Not a man was hit, — 

Save our Captain. 

Oh, we who would have died for you, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie, 
Are fighting now in pride for you, 

Dixie, Captain Dixie. 
Are hoping from your home on High 
You'll see us charge, — will hear us cry : 
" For Dixie! Strike, advance or die! 

For our Captain ! " 



S3 



TRENCH TALES 



THE COLONEL'S STORY 

The Colonel thumped his old black pipe and tamped in 

the soothing weed. 
(A cool, sweet smoke on a red hot night was the grand 

old Colonel's creed.) 
He lighted a match with a snip of his nail and tenderly 

gazed at the flame: 
" It's just like this," he said through the smoke, " a flash, 

— and the end of the game! " 

" A flash, — and a duty like lighting a pipe — p'raps 

lighting a mother's days, — 
Then nothing but charred and blackened remains, — or 

maybe a heluva blaze! 
And what if the fire burns 'round the world. The match, 

— it's gotta go out ! 

And that's what I used to tell Dixie McCord; but Dix 
was a mountain of doubt. 

" He thirsted for fame and yearned for a name that would 
burn in the days to be, 

And fit was he for a king of men — a liker you'll never 
see. 

Full six feet two in his stocking feet, all tissue and nerve 
the while 

With heart as big as his bulk of thew and a ' damn-glad- 
to-do-it ' smile ! 

" Oh, the dreams he dreamed in the ' after mess ' of a 

great, grand gallant rush ! 
And the plans he planned for a get-away in the heart of 

the last Big Push ! 

54 



TRENCH TALES 



His fever spread round in the souls of us and we saw in 

the battles due 
The torn, worn flag of the Regiment the first to have 

broken thru! 

" BuJ Fate is a miscreant kind of maid and chance is her 

mother-in-law, 
The harder you strive for her well-baked side the liker 

you'll find the raw. 
And he who battles for laurel wreath is on for a mirage 

dance 
While the sombre yew may garnish the head of the man 

who gambles in chance." 

The Colonel thumped on his old black pipe and scattered 

the embers out. 
" It's just like this," he said with a smile, " a space — and 

the end of a bout ! 
A little of living and loving, and then — the uncertain 

end of the game — 
And that's what I used to tell Dixie McCord, but Dix 

was a digger for fame. 

" We entered the line in the quiet place, and there isn't 

much to be said : 
Jus,t a ' snipe ' or two or a shell came thru — and maybe 

a midnight raid. 
For the worst of all was we had to learn tho' it seemed 

but play for a child — 
Then the Big Drive came with its chance for fame and 

Dixie McCord went wild ! 



55 



TRENCH TALES 



" He fumed at the frisks of an adverse Fate and wished 

for a place out there — 
When sudden our line was a mass of men and the Boche 

had quitted his lair ! 
Two companies held in a shell swept town and swore 

they were there to stay — 
For one was old Dixie's righting * B ' and the other was 

Company ' A.' 

" All day they held as the line fell back and many the 
word of cheer 

Came up from the ' Powers that Be ' back there to hold 
tho the cost be dear! 

And never a Fate more handsomely smiled on children en- 
deared to fame 

Than the Captains of ' A * and ' B ' — so Dix had his 
chance for a name! 

" The masses of green-grey dead lay piled like bulwarks 
around the town 

And the ' Typewriter Ticklers ' kept heaping them up 
whenever the Boche bore down. 

Till after a while the waves gave way and gas shells sick- 
ened the din 

And hard on its heels the Germans came and furiously 
smashed on in! 

' Unnerved by the clouds of poison gas the Companies 

broke at last 
And fighting their way on the crooked streets fell back 

where the line held fast. — 
Yet theirs was the day, for reserves came up, And the 

hours the town had held 
Sufficed for the troops to consolidate, and the old and the 

new to weld! 

56 



TRENCH TALES 



" Aback in the muck of the crooked streets as the fighting 
troops gave way, 

A wounded Boche tore the gas mask off from the Cap- 
tain of Company ' A.' 

Then a bayonet thrust brought him gasping down, and 
choking from fumes of fire 

He called to the Captain of Company 'B'; and Dix knelt 
down in the mire. 

" Sweet visions of fame had teemed in his brain and almost 

he'd painted the luck 
Of the Captains who'd held to the town all day when the 

rest of the line had struck. 
He thought of the chance the day had won, — then he 

thought of his wounded friend 
Unmasked in the paths of the poison gas — a minute more 

— and the end ! 

"A minute more. Oh, the day was sweet! — and the 

Huns were coming en masse 
But he thought of the horrible, tearing death from the 

fumes of the poison gas 
And stripping his own mask off he gave the chance to his 

wounded friend 
As the Boche came up and he turned to fight — a man 

to the journey's end. 

" The Captain of ' A ' is a Colonel now and wearing the 
D. S. C. 

For the highest of honors were won that day by the fight- 
ers of ' A ' and ' B.' 

And a little grave in this Hero Land, revered by the 
Khaki Clan 

Is the resting place of Dixie McCord — full six feet two 
of man ! " 

57 



TRENCH TALES 



The Colonel thumped on his old black pipe and his eyes 

were pearly dim: 
" He didn't live for the fame he'd won but we worship 

the name of him : 
And tho I've sported the dreams of him and laughed his 

ideals away, 
I honor the Captain of Company ' B ' — for I was the 

Captain of 'A'!" 



AN AIR RAID 

Silent the bullet's drone, 

Silent the screaming shell ; 
Hushed are the cry and groan, 

Echo the words : " All's well ! " 
Peace to the soldier comes 

Wrapped in the arms of night, 
Dreaming of loves and homes, 

Never a dream of fight — 
When out of the dark 
The whimpering bark 
Of a gun and the roar of a flight ! 

Wildly the sleepers wake 

Chilled to the bravest heart, 
Just as the barracks quake, 

Tremble and burst apart. 
Limber the anxious guns 

Light through the inky sky, 
Aim for the racing Huns, 

Vengeance for those who die! 
The searchlights glare 
58 



TRENCH TALES 



And the rockets flare 
And the shrapnel bursts on high! 

Screaming a bomb descends 

Hissing its hymn of hate 
There where the stable bends, — 

Such is the will of Fate. 
Upwards the airmen curve, 

Fixed in the searchlight's rays 
Enemy bombers swerve 

Fleeing its vengeful maze — 
While moaning their woe 
The horses below 
Are trampling the men in their craze. 

Bursting around the plane 

Shrapnel in fiery spurts, 
Men who are wild with pain 

Smile as they staunch their hurts. 
Faintly the engines beat, 

Throbbing with bated breath — 
Sudden a flaming sheet 

Crashes to earth — and death! 
And the million stars 
Of a million wars 
Shine on its last retreat! 

Slowly they die away ; 

The throb — the cannon's roar ; 
Silence and peace hold sway 

Save for the steady pour 
Raining the eclats down, 

Down to the earth below. 
Gone is the hostile sound, 
59 



TRENCH TALES 



Gone is the winged foe — 
And the weary ones 
Forsake their guns 
For sleep and peace once more. 

SERVICE OF THE REAR 

Doing our bit on the kitchen crew with a dirty rag, 
Taking our turn on the fatigue squad or a 1st Loot's fag, 
Tossing out shells for the Ordnance bunch, plying saw 

and wrench, 
Trying a bit at 'most everything but the first line trench. 

Reading the dope of our fighting pals as they march on in, 
Swelling our chests with a brother's pride for the scraps 

they win : 
Choking a bit o'er our unloved jobs as we plod along — 
Glamour and Romance have dreamed away like an old, 

sweet song. 

Knowing that someone must rush the stuff to the boys out 

there, 
Knowing that glory is not for us nor the stripes they wear, 
Knowing they'll gather the laurels sweet and the crowns 

of fame, 
Knowing that no one is proud of us — yet we play the 

game! 

Smiling wherever they jeer at us as they march on by, 
Aching and longing for one sweet day 'neath the flare-lit 

. sky ' 
Giving them all of our strength and hopes that their wants 

be filled, 

Growling a bit at an unkind Fate for the lot She willed. 

60 



TRENCH TALES 



Never to carry a service stripe nor a service cross, 
Counting our work in the rear as naught and our dreams 

as loss, 
Giving us nothing but work and food and a slacker's 

name, 
Nothing but HELL in a refined way — yet we play the 

game! 

Yes, for it's bigger than one man's dreams — there's a 

world at stake: 
It's greater and grander than one man's fame — there's a 

world to make: 
And a million boys in the lines tonight having all they 

need 
Is the only reward that we'll ever ask — - is our only greed. 

We know that we borrowed the drabbest end yet we're 

glad we're here, 
And we're doing the all that they ask of us happy to a 

volunteer, 
And what if the littlest praise be ours on the great, grand 

day 
It's something to know that we've served our Flag, — even 

in the smallest way. 



THE RAIDERS 

The French Raiders are brave men who, with their belts hang- 
ing low with grenades, precede an attack, or, as in this case, 
make a little private battle on their own hook, just for the love 
of fighting. 

Bloody old geezer, MacClellan, always out for a fight; 
Never would stay in the trenches; just couldn't hold him 
tight, 

61 



TRENCH TALES 



Got him a berth as lieutenant in charge of the bombing 

scouts, 
And " Mac's " first command was to steal out and blow 

up a few " sauerkrauts." 

There wasn't much scrap in that sector. The boys were 
losing their sand ; 

So " Mac " and his Raiders one evening crawled out into 
"No Man 's Land"; 

Crawled out to the German barbed wire, their belts hang- 
ing low with grenades, 

And cut thru the first line of tangles — 'twas black as the 
last ace of spades. 

The star shells began to shoot upwards till all of the 

world seemed on fire, 
And we could see " Mac " and his Raiders still cutting 

the German barbed wire. 
With pitch they had blackened their faces so the white 

wouldn't shine in the light, 
And we hoped like the devil they'd get back — but 

"Mac " — he was out for a fight! 

The sentry had hardly perceived him when " Mac " gave 

a blood-curdling yell 
And flung him a present of " kultur " that blew his whole 

output to hell! 
There wasn't much use now in hiding; he couldn't get 

back after that, — 
The sent'nels were shouting their warnings and machine 

guns started to spat. 

Then " Mac " and his Raiders got " going " — hit straight 
for the German first line, 

6a 



TRENCH TALES 



Went over the top like a cyclone as rifle balls started to 

whine. 
Well, maybe those Boche weren't caught napping! 

They came out of their " abris " in vain, 
For " Mac " and his raiding fire-eaters bombarded them 

back in again! 

Reserves were coming up quickly when " Mac " took the 

mouth of the trench, 
The star shells showed him alone there — and giving his 

bomb-belt a wrench 
He flung a grenade at the vanguard that blew them right 

out of the ground; 
Then, laughing, he dashed back to shelter and ordered 

his Raiders around. 

" Now, give them a cheer for old England and three for 

the brave Princess Pats; 
Throw 'em a last gift of ' kultur,' — then back to your 

burrows, you rats! " 
We heard them out there in the darkness — the cheers 

that were made with a will, 
And the rest of us just couldn't stand it — we beat it 

like hell up the hill! 

Old " Mac " and his men were still fighting: the Bodies 

had them penned in the wire, 
And five of our fellows were missing — went down with 

the first line of fire. 
In ten minutes it was all over, — the Boche had slunk 

back to his den, 
And we had brave " Mac " on our shoulders and shaking 

the hands of his men. 

63 



TRENCH TALES 



The next day you read in the papers: " An outpost was 

taken last night: " 
But never a word of our Raiders and never a word of the 

. fight * 
This war is too big to pick heroes, yet we who have suf- 
fered out there 
Will take off our hats to " The Raiders " — the nerviest 
men anywhere! 

IN THE DUGOUT 

'Tis a pretty reminiscence when your pipe is lit at night 

And you gaze with dreamy comfort thru its clouds of 
wispy light 

As the faces of your sweethearts of your boyish days steal 
by 

And you're back with love and sunshine 'neath old Geor- 
gia's soft blue sky. 

Then it sets your brain awhirling with a passionate delight 
As you trace their girlish figures in the greyish realms of 

white, 
And you chuckle softly to yourself whene'er you think of 

HER — 
The one you gave your doughnuts to, the first you did 

prefer. 

I should say I do remember that old sweetheart of mine — 
Just a wild, sweet rose of Georgia — child oi nature and 

sunshine. 
We would walk the scented meadows when the cows were 

driven home, 
Where the swift streams laughed in torrents speeding 

down from Yona's dome. 

6 4 



TRENCH TALES 



One day I stooped and kissed her when I'd lost my boyish 

fears — 
And then (I'll ne'er forget it though I live a thousand 

years) , 
She drew herself up like a queen (If one were e'er so fair) , 
Just withered me a moment and turned and left me there. 

Her sixteenth summer just had passed, the child was there 

no more, 
(I can see her eyes flash even now as I dream these dreams 

of yore). 
" Come back," I pleaded softly when she'd turned those 

eyes of blue, 
" Don't think I stole that kiss," I said, " I'll give it back 

to you! " 

She walked mare slowly then, I thought, until she reached 

her gate. 
I sloughed along my homeward path — but something 

bade me wait. 
She turned her pretty head around — I thought I saw her 

smile, 
But her sweet blue eyes were cast down while I shuffled 

to the stile. 

And then she tossed her golden curls and whispered, 

" Dear old Jack, 
I hate to think of you a thief — I guess — I'll take it 

back!" 
My heart soared right to glory and I yelped a Choctaw 

shout, 
Then I caught her — . . . Oh, doggone it — Huns 

a'coming — All pile out! 

65 



TRENCH TALES 



ALLISTER BILL'S ELSIE 

There are men who gamble their wads away when old 

pay day night rolls round 
On dice and cards or a chancing bet with a light o' love 

of the town. 
But the sportiest yet was the man-sized bet when Allister 

Bill Duprey 
Played an " Elsie lay " with Panhandle Jones to gamble 

his life away. 

The Sergeant had asked for a volunteer to cross the " Di- 
vide " that night, 
And Allister Bill and Panhandle Jones had both put in 

for the right. 
The Sergeant sure hated to pick a man and didn't know 

what to say, 
So Allister Bill says to Panhandle Jones : " We'll make 

it a monte lay! " 
That Panhandle Jones just worshipped the game and 

many the first line spells 
He dealt for the boys in a dugout dim and made them 

forget the shells. 
How we clustered around on those weary nights when he 

shuffled his monte deck — 
And never a man was too poor to play — your IOU was 

his check. 

Then Allister Bill rolled a nicotine pill, and Pan said it 

sure was a " hunch." 
"If you have to go I'll follow in tow and rustle you back 

to the Bunch." 

66 



TRENCH TALES 



So we wandered into the Catamount Cave and anxiously 

watched our pards 
As Panhandle Jones love-shuffled his deck and Allister Bill 

cut the cards. 



A " whizz bang " burst by the dugout door and the whim- 
pering smoke seeped in. 

We shifted a bit on our nervous feet and the silence hurt 
like sin! 

Only the twang of the long thin cards and the tense- 
toned voice of a man, 

As Allister Bill at the half of the deck says: " I'm wait- 
ing for ' Elsie,' Pan." 



Then Panhandle Jones turns the Lady of Hearts with the 

Gempman of Hearts on the floor — 
" That's my ' Elsie lay,' " says Allister Bill. " I'll play 

her an open door! " 
And we held our breath as the deck of death was tenderly 

stripped of cards 
Till only a third of the fifty-two was left to choose one 

of our pards. 



There wasn't a man in the dugout that night who hadn't 
bucked monte before : 

Who hadn't been downed on his favorite lay and cheer- 
fully paid the score: 

But never a man had seen such a play while gaming his 
monthly wealth 

When only nine cards remained in the deck and four of 
those cards meant death ! 

67 



TRENCH TALES 



The eyes of the men who play for the stakes are steely and 

diamond-hard — 
And Panhandle Jones presses down on the deck and slips 

out another card. 
Dim lighting the room in an eerie flash as a triple star 

slowly fades, 
He covers the " Elsie " of Allister Bill and Montes the 

Lady of Spades! 

He'd always a smile, had Allister Bill, and smiling he 

gripped Pan's hand, 
And bidding good-bye with never a sigh he crossed the 

Dividing Land! 
He had to go out to blow a Boche sap — and — and after 

the fire grew slack, 
Old Panhandle Jones went over the top and rustled his 

dead pal back ! 



ON PATROL 

Me an' Jim wus on patrol 
Wen we sloshes in a hole 

Out in No Man's Land. 
Hit wus full o' rottin' Germs 
'Bout as nice to feel as worms 

Wiv your bloomin' hand. 

We wus jest er pullin' out 
Wen we hears a muffled shout 

Comin' from below. 
An' we hears some picks er diggin' 
Like them Boches wus er riggm' 

Up some fancy show. 
68 



TRENCH TALES 



Sez old Jim: " I'll tell the Cap'n! 
You kin stay right here an' tap 'm 

If the dirt falls thru." 
So he beats it off like sin 
An' I sits an' throws er grin 

At ther fun to do! 

11 So," sez I, " you've dug a hole 
Fer your own grave, Mister Mole, 

Right out here in France! " 
An' them Boches worked like hell, 
While I sits down in me well 

Waitin' for me chance! 

I had only got two bums, 

Fer to han' ther fust wot comes, 

So I waited still, 
Then the dirt begun ter fall 
An' er pick stuck thru ther wall — 

So I grabbed me pill! 

Mister Boche sticks out his snout — 
Wow! I lets er horrid clout 

Wiv er han' grenade. 
Wish you could er seen ther smack 
And ther way 'e tumbled back 

Like his head wus splayed! 

I had dumb up out on top 
So I lets me last one drop 

On the other fork. 
Blow'd them Huns right out again 
Like this " parley voo " champagne 

W'en you pulls ther cork. 



69 



TRENCH TALES 



\ 



Then they got me, did the Huns, 
Wiv their rapid firin' guns, 

Shot me down they did! 
An' ther Cap'n finds me there 
Wiv me paw stuck in me hair 

Where they'd plucked me lid. 

Now I'm minus of one ear, 
But you bet I'll never keer, 

Fer I might have died. 
An' I sees them Huns again 
Poppin' out like old champagne! 

Then I'm satisfied! 



A HUN AVIATOR 

A soldier honors a brave man's deed, 
Regardless of country, law or creed. 
Be he yellow, red or white or black: 
Be his morals pure or conscience slack: 
Be he English, French or Russ or Hun: 
A man's a man for the things he's done. 
Not what he is, but what he does, 
Is his measure as a soldier goes. 



From Soissons on the River Aisne up to the Craonne 

Height, 
A man may sleep a bit by day but never a bit by night. 
A man may sleep a wink by day, but he who sleeps " out 

there," 
Must watchful be for the foe beneath, on earth and in the 

air. 
His bed may lie above a mine: a random shell may burst: 
A silver cloud may hide a foe who lurks with hate athirst. 

70 



TRENCH TALES 



Yet quiet comes with eventide before the dark unfolds 
That hideous hell that's known as night, its tragic drama 

holds. 
A peaceful time when brave men girt their courage up 

anew, 
And pray to Him who is above to win the long night 

through. 
When they who make and they who mar move men 

where'er they will, 
And unseen hands plot unknown things to kill and kill 

and kill. 



One evening at the twilight hour the long lines lay at 

rest: 
The ruddy sun in grandeur sank into the crimson West. 
The " Army Eyes " were signalling their data for the 

night, 
And long gray clouds of moving dust rose thru the waning 

light. 
Two thousand feet above the earth — three miles behind 

the foe, 
The Observation Bags were up directing guns below. 



When sudden from behind a cloud there shot a silver 

Thing 
That grew and grew and nearer came within the hostile 

ring, 
Three observation bags were up and scarce three miles 

apart, 
And straight for them the Silver Thing sped like the 

lightning's dart. 
The weary gunners down below had scarcely seen it there 
When shrapnel puffs began to dot the quiet twilight air. 

7* 



TRENCH TALES 



The Frenchmen in the " sausages " in frantic haste sent 

down 
Their signals of the racing Hun to comrades on the 

ground. 
Yet swift and swift the Silver grew, nor veered to left 

nor right, 
His mitrailleuse began to speak. The sausage cleared for 

flight. 
And far away, below the ridge, two French planes rose 

to air 
And banked and circled warily to gain a vantage there. 

Two thousand feet above the earth, — three miles behind 
the foe, 

The " sausage " crumpled slowly up and flamed a ruddy 
glow. 

Two shrill, shrill screams of agony ; a fiendish cry of mirth 

And two dark forms — grim, shapeless, — fell their pil- 
grimage to earth! 

Nor turned, nor stopped, nor rose, nor dropped, but ever 
swifter sped 

The little Silver plane straight for the second bag ahead. 

Ten guns below bespoke their woe and belched their 

vengeful hails, 
The shrapnel smoke on all sides broke: lead thrashed the 

air like flails. 
The high explosive shells screamed up to burst beyond 

their mark : 
Two broken forms in silence lay beside the gunners' park; 
The men within the " sausage " had their mitrailleuse at 

play, 
And thru the air the bullets whined — the bird-man 

neared his prey. 



7* 



TRENCH TALES 



He missed : he dropped : then rose again and like a fright- 
ened bird 

He banked and veered and swiftly soared straight for the 
trembling third! 

The great gas bag had slowly sunk — a thousand feet 
from ground — 

Yet all too late the lowering came : the Silver Streak bore 
down 

His mitrailleuse again aflame — then, like the eagle's 
swoop 

He smote his prey a mortal wound, — then calmly looped 
the loop! 

Ten guns below bespoke their woe, but baffled by the 
swift 

Uncertain movements of the Hun their vengeance went 
adrift. 

The two French Spads were also thrown a moment from 
the chase, 

As widely banked the wily Hun in that terrific race. 

And while the whitening shrapnel puffs the twilight heav- 
ens kissed, 

He whirled around, — a silver streak, — straight for the 
bag he'd missed! 

His wings were torn with bullet holes : his engine coughed 

and gasped: 
Two hostile squads around him closed and eclats near him 

rasped : 
His belt was nearly bare of shells: there seemed no safe 

retreat : 
Three miles away his haven lay, — to fight meant sure 

defeat. 

73 



TRENCH TALES 



Yet still he fired: the " sausage " fell in agony to ground 
And little men in parachutes shot shrieking, whirling 
down! 

Two miles away his haven lay beyond the River Aisne, 
Above, below, the vengeful foe were tearing on his plane. 
Defenseless there in hostile air he fled back towards the 

North, 
The whining lead shrieked round his head; the eager 

ground stretched forth! 
He gained the Aisne — a rival plane missed ramming by 

a hair: 
And like a steed with demon speed he gained his silver 

lair. 

From Soissons on the River Aisne up to the Craonne 
Height, 

A man may work where'er he will, but every man must 
fight! 

May burrow mole-wise through the earth to set a powder 
mine: 

May charge across the shell-torn ground where leaden 
bullets whine : 

May live like eagles in the air, — a stranger to cold fear : 

Yet he must fight on Craonne Height who holds his coun- 
try dear! 



THE TRAIL THROUGH NO MAN'S LAND 

Old pal, we have broken a thousand trails 

And camped for a thousand nights: 
We have lived with men beyond the pales 

And laughed through our endless fights: 

74 



TRENCH TALES 



We have traveled the winding paths that roam, 

But ever the way led back 
To the Land of Love that we know as Home 

As sure as the swallow's track. 
But those days, old pal, in the past are sped, 

And today with our gun and pack 
We're hitting the Trail that lies ever Ahead, 

And there are no Highways Back. 



•We're hitting the Trail with no Back Track, 

The Trail that lies ever Ahead: 
And we'll follow it, pal, till the battle's won 

Or the strength of our souls be sped — 
On the shell-torn Trail, the well worn Trail, 
The hell born Trail through No Man's Land. 



Old pal, they've blazed us a strong man's trail, — 

Our comrades who've gone before, — 
They're counting on us and we cannot fail 

Though our feet be weary and sore. 
Oh, the way is hard and the way is long, 

And the Trail lies steeped in blood ; 
But we're hitting it, pal, with our hearts in song 

And we wouldn't turn back if we could. 



On, on, on, Ahead o'er the hard fought Trail 

Where never a step may lag 
'Til our foemen yield on the battlefield 

Saluting our Starry Flag — 
On the shell-torn Trail, the well worn Trail, 

The hell born Trail through No Man's Land. 
75 



TRENCH TALES 



A prayer, old pal, as we pack along, 

And the moonbeams glisten pale, 
For the boys who fall with their hearts in song 

While blazing the Onward Trail. 
For the Mother hack there on the old Back Trail, 

As she bravely smiled and said: 
" My Boy, keep to the Outward Trail 

'Til the strength of your soul be sped." 
I think they'll know, as we go, old pal, 

And our muffled drums beat low, 
And they'll wish us well, as we pass, old pal, 

To the Land where they longed to go. 

A prayer, old pal, as we pack along 
And the moonbeams glisten pale, 

For the boys who fall somewhere in France 
While blazing the Outward Trail — 

The shell-torn Trail, the well worn Trail, 

The hell born Trail through No Man's Land. 



MY FRIEND 

Silent he lay there in the night, — 
A crumpled, shapeless mass ; 

His once glad face a putty white 
Against the crimson grass. 

I kneel to grasp his senseless hand 

And whisper in his ear, — 
The shells go hurtling o'er the Land, 

But Harry does not hear. 



76 



TRENCH TALES 



I take his little silver tag 
From off his lifeless wrist, 

And from his neck a silken Flag 
And picture, mother-kist. 

I wonder, as I smoothe his hair 
And wait the morn to come, 

How I can tell his Mother there 
That Harry won't come home. 

I'd rather lie like he has lain, 

And smile as he did, too, 
Than cause his Mother half the pain 

That friendship bids me do. 

For tho I grieve a royal friend, 
And all my world seems blue, 

I know that this is not the end — 
And others must grieve, too. 



LINES FROM A LISTENING POST 

When you've staked a claim on thinking and you're ques- 
tioned up with riddles 
And you're worried 'bout the end of things — the After 
Life and all, 
Don't you wonder if you cashed in would you play those 
Golden Fiddles, 
Or if maybe things you'd thoughtless done would pass 
the ebon ball ? 

77 



TRENCH TALES 



When you see your best time bunky stagnant still and 
bloody-crumpled, 
And you souvenir the world of things he used to al- 
ways do — 
You just know that he could answer all the questions that 
you've fumbled, 
But his lips are sealed and silent, and he hearkens not 
to you. 

Don't you sometimes kind of wonder why your dead pal 
sleeps so stilly, 
Why he never says a word of after-faring good or bad ? 
Why he never leaves a hint to help you wandering willy- 
nilly 
When in life he would have gone thru hell to make you 
smiling glad? 

Don't you wonder when a pardner goes down, brazenly 
blaspheming, 
With no chance to square himself with God or time to 
make a prayer, 
Is he damned for good and always to a life of groans and 
screaming, 
Or is Someone shuffling hands-down with a mind to 
play it fair? 

When you've lived with death and near death and you've 
staked a claim on thinking, 
Don't the things you've done and didn't do come filing 
row on row? 
When you've doped your life percentage and you find it 

surely sinking 
Don't you wish you hadn't done the things you did not 
long ago? 

78 



TRENCH TALES 



You can listen to this " Fate Line " but you know you 
don't believe it, 
And you know you're far from ready to go up before 
your God, 
There's a voice that cries you caution — It's a cinch you 
can't deceive it 
For there's something else a-coming 'cept the six feet 
two of sod! 

When you're planning out this thought strike and your 
dust is tainted yellow, 
And you know it wouldn't pay the way from here to 
Peter's gate — 
Ain't it time to shift your diggings and hitch to the other 
Fellow 
Who will show you where Bonanza is, — and start an- 
other slate ? 



MY EPITAPH 

If I be killed " Out There," 

Let it be said: 
" Here lies a man who lived 

Best when his blood was shed, 
Who never knew the joy of life 

Until he gave it for his flag, 
Who learned that living was made sweet 

By serving without lag." 

Let it be said: 
" He died beneath the silver stars ; 

The skies of blue ; the flash of red ; 
His Country's flag, his own." 
79 



TRENCH TALES 



Let it be known : 
" That no regret, no single moan 
Passed those cold lips that learned to smile 
At that new joy of serving all the while." 

Let it be told : 
" Here lies no warrior bold, 
No man of iron nerve, 
But one who learned to love and live 
The day he learned to serve." 



LETTERS FROM HOME 

When you're feeling sort of woozy and your liver's on 

decline, 
And you can't enjoy tobacco nor a little wee of wine; 
And 3'ou're feeling that disgusted you would rather quit 

than fight, 
Don't a good old homey letter put your liver back all 

right ? 

When you ain't got much ambition and you're leary 'bout 

it all, 
'Bout this universal peace thing, — think it's nearly all a 

stall ; 
And you're sick of guns and bullets and you'd rather lie 

and dodge — 
Don't a good old homey letter make you want to yell and 

charge ! 

When you're tired of rats and trenches and you'd rather 

be back home, 
And you don't care much for nothing — life's all across 

the foam: 

80 



TRENCH TALES 



And their shooting gets your courage and there's water 

in your eye — 
Don't a good old homey letter shoot your backbone to the 
sky? 

When your body's just all tired out and the righting just 

won't cease, 
And you'd almost give up vict'ry for a little rest and 

peace : 
And you're sick and tired of cussin' and you don't know 

how to smile — 
Don't a good old homey letter make it all seem darn'd 

worth while? 

You can bet it makes us happy, starts us working with a 

will, 
Makes our hardships pass unnoticed, keeps us always up 

the hill; 
We'd be glad to fight forever — gives our lips an upward 

curl, 
When we get a homey letter from the best home in the 

world. 

TO A FRIEND 

There ain't no wrong in the world, old pal, 
That a friend can't square up right 

There ain't no blues in the world, old pal, 
That a friend can't put to flight! 

There ain't no fun in the world, old pal, 

'Less a friend has a good, big bit, 
There ain't no joy in the world, old pal, 

If a friend's not part of it! 
81 



TRENCH TALES 



There ain't no life that is plumb worth while 
If the life of a friend ain't part. 

If there ain't the cheer of a good pal's smile 
And the warmth of a dear friend's heart, 

There ain't no honor or name, old pal, 
If you search to the Journey's end; 

There ain't no title as high, old pal, 
As the simple old handle, — friend! 



SEEING THROUGH THE MUD 

Buck up, boy, and greet the morning. What's the use of 

hanging crepe? 
Peace and victory on the dawning! Lick your grin box 

into shape! 
Winter working makes you stronger — gives your system 

lots of pep! 
Hit the Trail a little longer building up your Country's 
rep. 
There's a lot of sunshine 

shining through the Mud! 

Rain is kind of like a tonic, — makes you pretty, people 

say. 
Sleet and hail, they're not chronic — when you smile they 

fade away. 
Shelling? Lordy, boy, don't worry when you hear the 

big guns sing, 
Think of all that scream and flurry — often never hit 
a thing! 
Keep a'grinning at that sunshine 

shining through the Mud! 
$2 



TRENCH TALES 



Maybe you've got a great big grumble — run a corner on 

hard luck. 
Kind of like to rant and rumble 'bout your mis'ry and 

the muck. 
Did you ever stop and wonder as your comrades by you 

pushed 
Up the trench to greet the thunder — why they smiled, 

and smiling — rushed ? 
They were seeing of that sunshine 

shining through the Mud ! 

Did you ever see our Sammies ploughing on through muck 

and slop, 
Hear their grinning, cheerful, " damn me's! " as they 

piled up o'er the top! 
See them gladly, gladly giving all on earth they've got to 

give 
That the Sun of Freedom living still might shine and still 

might live, 
So that you could see its sunshine 

shining through the Mud! 

Do your durndest with good will, boy! Smile your 

broadest when you're blue, 
If you've got a bitter pill, boy, hide it from your comrades' 

view. 
They have troubles just like you, boy; but a soldier has to 

smile. 
It's the smiling that you do, boy, makes your service damn 

worth while! 
Makes your comrades see the sunshine 

shining through the Mud ! 

83 



TRENCH TALES 



THE BEST GAME OF ALL 

Old pal, we've hunted the grizzly bear to his Rocky 

Mountain den. 
And thrill to thrill we have met his rush and killed like 

the savage men. 
Just you and I and the bleak, black sky and the yellow, 

bared back fangs — 
We loved the fight as the grizzly does so we met as the 

bull moose clangs! 

We've hunted the boar in northern France and spitted him 

hand to hand. 
At the break of day when he turned at bay, old pal, we 

were there to stand ! 
And his last grand rush as his six-inch tusk whipped by 

like an eagle's claw, 
What a glorious thrill to be in at the kill when the day's 

unbaked and raw! 

We've followed the trail of the mustached lynx and tun- 
neled him out of his lair; 

We've stalked on the track of the mountain lion and slept 
on his soft warm hair. 

We've stuck to the trail from daylight till dark and always 
in at the fall, 

And now we're hunting the biggest game, man, and — 
God! it's the best of all! 

Out there in the land where the trails are lost and the 

game is coming fast 
With a red-eyed will and a lust to kill — it's the " Happy 

Ground " at last ! 

84 



TRENCH TALES 



As we lie stiff stark, in the liquid dark, and we list for 

our angry prey, 
And the rifles crash in the Verey's flash, we're seeing him 

turned at bay! 

We're done with the bear and the wild cat's lair, we're 

off on a man's size hunt ; 
We're done with the boar and the tiger's roar ; we're deaf 

to the wild pig's grunt. 
We're taking our stand in the " Hunting Land " that the 

red man dreamed about: 
We're hunting the biggest game of all, and, brother, we're 

tracking them out! 



MY HERO 

A. Slinger, War Correspondent, of the Crabville County 
Gazette, 

Was my ideal of a hero, — the favored of gods and our pet. 

When " bugles in agony sounded " and " strife was arife 
in the air," 

He " girt up his undaunted loins " and Slinger of Crab- 
ville dashed there. 

How thrilled we read in the papers of all that he braved 

at the Front, 
Of how he stood by at St. Quentin : and helped Gen'ral 

Joftre pull his stunt. 
We ate up his " highways of bullets," — his " boulevards 

bristling with shells " ; 
His days were " nightmares of blood carnage," his nights 

were "unspeakable hells!" 

85 






TRENCH TALES 



We read of his month in the trenches and paled at the 

pitiful sight 
Of " blood running wild like a torrent," and men " going 

crazy at night." 
We froze with him through the drear winter when 

" fingers and noses dropped off," 
We shuddered at hardships he'd weathered, — turned 

white at the dangers he'd scoff. 

But I was unhappily drafted and rushed over quickly to 

France, 
And drifted one day into Paris, " enrepoo " before taking 

my chance. 
Somehow chanced I into a barroom, — and sudden stood 

stiff on the floor — 
Entrenched behind bulwarks of cocktails, was Slinger, — 

my hero of yore! 

He wrote as I tremblingly stood there, his brow all 

a-beady with sweat, 
And the words that he scribbled so hurried I think I 

shall never forget: 
" Last night the carnage was horrid. I, myself, was 

thick in the fight, 
And the pounding of big guns keep rhythm with the keys 

of my type as I write." 

I wondered what guns he heard pounding, when a soldier 

observed with a grin: 
"■ He's one of those War Correspondents who sees all the 

Front through his gin ! " 
Three others were writing there wildly, when sudden it 

dawned upon me 
That Slinger, brave War Correspondent, had never been 

out of Paree. 

86 



TRENCH TALES 



SAMMY'S DUTCH COURAGE 

Tommy needs his wee o' rum 
To start huntiri for the Hun, 
An a glass o J crawlin pinard helps the poilu on the 
run. 

'But a good old jaw o' chew 
Keeps the Sammy on the do, 

An he's spittin, never quittin, 'till the bloomin 
battle's won! 

The Cap'n chawed his baccy and the Cap'n scratched his 
dome: 
" I'm a thinkin'," he sez, " Sargint, wot ter hell — 
Wot ter hell they're doin' yonder whur them ' minnen- 
wefers ' come 
'Caus' tonight we ain't been bothered by no shell." 

So I cottons to the Cap'n : " If you're anxious f er to 
know 

What them Huns is calculatin' anywhere — 
All you got to do is tell me an' I'm ready fer to go — " 

Sez the Cap'n to me : " Sargent, put it there ! " 

It wus stiller than a graveyard and ther wasn't nary 
light, 
An' a lot ov rottin' corpses wus about: 
But I daubs me map with pitch, sir, so it wouldn't shine 
so white, 
An' I takes a chew o' baccy and hauls out! 

87 



TRENCH TALES 



Sure, them Huns wus pretty near us, — somethin' 'long 
o' 80 yards, 
An' the wire wus hangin' loosely in a strand. 
Hit shore wus mighty mournful when I sees me pore old 
pards 
Wot wus cultivatin' shell holes in the Land. 

Some wus mournin' and a' groanin' and I hear a fellow 
scream — 
All the which wus dyin' slowly lyin' there: 
But I crawls on in a nightmare — like a fellow in a 
dream — 
Till I feels like somethin's comin' at me fair! 

Hit wus darker than a pitchpot but I knowed I weren't 
alone, 
An' I almost yelled me nerves wus thet unstrung: 
Then I hears 'em crawlin', crawlin' and I stretches out 
right prone 
Like I'd cashed me checks unhallo'd an' unsung! 

Ther wus lots o' corpses out there what was not so rank 
as me, 
Fer I hadn't stripped me duds this little lif, 
An' I tole you how me map wus, — so I made, you plainly 
see, 
A respectable and smelly kind o' stiff. 

Then them nawsty Boches reached me and they clum 
up on me frame, 
An' they lingered like they loved the shape o' it! 
An' I gulped me wad o' baccy — I wus chewin' o' the 
same 
When the Boches got so thick I couldn't spit. 

88 



TRENCH TALES 



I know'd me end wus commin' and wus commin' pretty 
quick, 
An' I wonder'd wot ter 'ell that I could do : 
Fer them Bodies wouldn't leave me and I shore wus 
pow'ful sick — 
The which had cramped me circus — had that chew ! 

You would think that I would give up all the courage 
that I had — 
(Not to mention several other little things) 
An' I gets to feelin' foolish from the kickin' o' thet 
wad: 
So I hists me voice to heav'n an' I sings: 

" Tommy needs his wee o J rum 
To start huntin fer the Hun, 
An a glass o J crawlin pinard helps the poilu on the 
run: 

But a good old jaw o J chew 
Keeps the Sammy on the do 

An he's spittin never quittin till the bloomin 
battle's won! " 

Gosh, them Boches throw'd the sponge up when I spouts 
me little song 

An' they yelled like holy rollers in the pines : 
(Y'know me voice ain't pretty, so it helps the fun along) 

An' they beats it hell fer leather fer our lines. 

They wus pilin' off me stummick, they wus pilin' off me 
head, 
They wus squealin' like a bunch o' hungry hogs: 

89 



TRENCH TALES 



An' I yells an' sings an' dances — (me wot they had thot 
wus dead) 
An' they rolls into our trenches jist like logs! 

Then I waddles in behin' 'em with me appetite caved in, 

But me spirit still a' spoutin' of a yell: 
An' ther Cap'n chaws his baccy and ther Cap'n throws a 
grin: 

" It's a blow-out! " sez he, " Sargint, wot ter 'ell! " 

So I gives him thirteen pris'ners wot wus " Kameradin' " 
blue. 
" These here shells," sez I, " is some explosive things, 
But they ain't a Christmas pop-gun 'long a belly full o' 
chew! 
Which reminds me, Cap'n," sez I, then I sings: 

" Tommy needs his wee o* rum 
To start huntin fer the Hun, 

An a glass o 1 crawlin pinard helps the poilu on the 
run: 
But a good old jaw o' chew 
Keeps us Sammies on the do, 

An we're spittin , never quittin till the bloomin 
battle's won! ** 



SECTION D — TMU— 133 

Old pal, I know you are thinking of our happy camion 
days, 
Of the great big-hearted fellows that we knew : 
Of that Land so scarred and nameless where the shell 
aurora plays, 
Of our comrades, dear old comrades in the Blue. 

90 



TRENCH TALES 



You remember how we loved them — all that joyous, 
happy band, 
The careless, carefree volunteers for France: 
How we loved our thrilling journeys thru the wondrous 
Star Shell Land 
Where our mighty five-ton steeds would buck and 
prance ! 
Eddie Redfield, I could bean you when I hear you holler: 

"J ud > 

Shake your blankets, you old loafer, and pile out! " 

And it's two o'clock, you devil, and the world is full of 
mud, 
And it's cold enough to freeze a poodle's snout ! 

They are wanting ammunition and there's not a sec to 
lose, 
Sure old Pat is up and doing of his bit: 
And I expedite your forebears as you dump me in the 
ooze — 
But I'm glad I'm there to do my part of it! 

Oh, those thrilling, chilling mornings as we thunder down 
the Trail 
With our loads of ammunition for the guns: 
We munch our mouldy chocolate as the sky is turning 
pale, 
And we hearken to the strafing of the Huns! 

You remember, dear old fellow, how we rumbled thru the 
night 
And we couldn't see a thing that lay ahead : 
How we thanked the roaring cannons for their vivid 

floods of light, 
And the star shells for their greenish sunshine spread. 

9* 



TRENCH TALES 



Oh, the road was like a whirlpool with its countless surg- 
ing pawns, 
All the hordes of combat wagons and of men. 
While the batt'ries moved like tortoise: while the staff 
cars sped like fawns : 
We were masters of the roadway, weren't we then? 

But they're over — all those glad days — all those days of 
fight and fun, 
When we roamed the Front as carefree volunteers. 
We are now in sterner khaki and we're looking for the 
Hun 
With the' Stars and Stripes a'waving to our cheers! 

Yet I'm thinking, pal, we're longing for the free skies and 
the stars, 
For our dear old dirty, bouncing, bumping truck, 
And I think we'd swap our Sam Brownes and our little 
silver bars 
For one thrilling, cussing night ride thru the muck! 

Those were days of fun and laughter: those were days of 
joy and pain: 
Those were days of happy romance and of zest : — 
Yet we've left them, dear old fellow, far too good to come 
again — 
For our Country's call has found us — it is best! 

So we'll drink one to the Section, — to our good old Sec- 
tion D. 
To the neurogenous comrades that we knew: 
And we'll take one more to drown it, and I vote we make 
it three! 
It's a good old world, old fellow! Here's to you! 

92 



TRENCH TALES 



MY OLD PAL AND ME 

I've a cozy little office hid out there 

All secure from winter weather, wind and snow. 
And I'm safe from biting blizzards and the glare — 

So I ought to be real satisfied, I know. 

IVe a staff job in the A. S. L. of C. 

And the work is just the kind I'm trained to do, 
But the Star Shell Country's voice is calling me 

And I'm restless for the romance that I knew. 

I've a little bunch of volumes in my room 
And my pipe is ever glowing bluish bright, 

So I pen my rhymes to chase away the gloom, 

But I know I'll have to leave them all some night! 

For I'm dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of those days 
When we thunder'd down the dark roads to the guns, 

And I'm seeing star shells bursting thru the maze, 
And I hear the red, red voices of the Huns! 

There's a Kent and Kidder staring in my eyes, 

There's a pile of plans for monster guns and things, 

But my thoughts have hari-karied to the skies 
Where the mitrailleuse is flaming as it sings! 

There's a fascinating drawing on my board 

And an estimate for building up a shop, 
But my thoughts have run amuck to where the horde 

Of howling Huns are piling o'er the top! 

Ah, hello — there's someone knocking at my door, 
My old pal, who brings a taste of star shell air, 

93 



TRENCH TALES 



Who will chide me for my rhyming: wake some more 
All my yearnings for the flare-lit wastes out there. 

" Hello, boy! Why, what's the matter? You look sick, 
And you're drippier than poodles in the rain: 

Why, your map acts like a misbehaving brick ! 

Doff your duds, get warm, smoke up and spill your 
pain!" 

" Jud, you horse-thief, tell me how you got your drag 

For a decent job in this here pesky war. 
All I do is freeze and fight and cuss and fag! 

Why, I'd give my bars to be just where you are! " 

Then he tells me of the hard fights and abuse, 
And I yearn to be again 'neath flame-cut skies — 

But I tell him of the new shells he can use 
And he looks at me with envy in his eyes. 

So we banter job for job and smoke and grin 
As we spill the age-old army transfer line, 

But it doesn't make a dif just so we win — 

Still, I'd like to have his job, and he would mine! 



THOSE FRENCH " POM POMS " 

"Pom! Pom! Pom! Pom! 

Out to give Heinle his due till he's through and blue! 

Pom! Pom! I'll be dom! 

Here's Yankee Doodle, hit and kaboodle, 
Out to give Heinie his due — Pom! Pom!" 



94 



TRENCH TALES 



The Frenchies have lent us their Pom Poms — 

We didn't have any in France. 
A little bit bigger they are on the trigger 

But, gee, it's a wonderful chance — Pom ! Pom ! 

Into the line with the Pom Poms, 
Crumbling a pill-box down! 

Pom! Pom! I'll be dom! 

Here's Yankee Doodle, kit and kaboodle, 
Crumbling a pill-box down — Pom ! Pom ! 

The Heinies have built 'em a redoubt 

And walled it with concrete and steel, 
But it'll be safer when we start to straf 'er 

To build 'em an automobile — Pom ! Pom ! 

And cuddle up under the wheel — Pom ! Pom ! 

Clearing the snags with the Pom Poms, 
Smashing a redoubt up! 

Pom! Pom! I'll be dom! 

Here's Yankee Doodle, kit and kaboodle, 
Smashing a redoubt up — Pom ! Pom ! 

It's chocked to the gills with the devil, 

And out to give Heinie his due, 
" Your ' Gott ' may be mit you but, Fritz, when I hit you 

You've got to admit that he's through — Pom ! Pom ! 

And mighty darn glad to quit, too — Pom! Pom! " 

"Pom! Pom! Pom! Pom! 

Out to give Heinie his due till he's through and blue! 

Pom! Pom! Pom! Pom! 

Here's Yankee Doodle, kit and kaboodle, 
Out to give Heinie his due — Pom! Pom!" 

95 



TRENCH TALES 



OVER THE DRINKS 

Drink? Yes. Thanks. Oh, anything. You see, it 

doesn't matter much, 
For I'm going back tomorrow as a target for the 

"Dutch!" 
Dumps? Lord, no, it isn't that! Some folks would call 

it Fate. 
You know, a man just gets a hunch when Death has made 

a date! 

Remember Dick, of Company C, who had the liquid fire? 
Old Dick got mighty sure one night he'd kick in on the 

wire. 
He even gave me notes for home — his pictures, and, by 

gad — 
(No, make it straight for me this time) — the best friend 

that I had. 

And sure enough the word came 'round — " It's zero time 

at five! " 
And Dicky boy just wrung my hand and grinned : " The 

last for me alive ! " 
I laughed and tried to pass it off, but Dicky swallowed 

hard 
All through the preparation roar, then whispered: 

"S'long, old Pard!" 

At five less zero we were set, and out in No Man's Land 
A squad of humped-up figures crawled — old Dicky and 
his band — 

96 



TRENCH TALES 



You know this liquid fire layout — the smoke grenades at 

first, 
And under cover with the flames to do their damning 

worst ! 

At zero sharp the smokers fired and deepening grey clouds 
broke, 

While half a dozen brick-red tongues went licking 
through the smoke! 

And after that — (another straight) — the fetid, burn- 
ing stench ! 

The screaming Huns: the twisted forms: the hell-charged, 
blackened trench] 

My God, I've hated Germans ! -i- but you see it different 

when 
You realize those piercing shrieks are made by human 

men! 
I wilted like a coward in his first time under fire, 
And I guess I must have fainted, for I slipped down at the 

wire! 

Oh, God, the hideous sight I saw — I must ... I must 

have dreamed! 
For in the trench before me someone laughed and wildly 

screamed. 
My pal, old Dick, gone clean, stark mad and crooning 

soft — then wild, 
And singing to a black, charred Boche as one would nurse 

a child ! 

And then . . . and then he saw me where the scattered 

barbed wire gleamed, 
"You there, look, look! Look what I've done! It's 

hell's own fire! " he screamed! 

97 



TRENCH TALES 



" You call it war — this burning hell — your devil must 

be fed! 
Aye, burn 'em ; burn ! It's your turn next ! " he shrieked, 

and fell back dead! 

(Another straight) — You know the rest. They hauled 

me to the doc, 
Who, like a grim old general, scratched : " Another 

case of shock." 
It's over now. I've had two weeks and filled them full 

of life. 
Tomorrow, when I get back there, I'll take old Death to 

wife! 

I can't get Dicky off my mind — those charred and black- 
ened Huns — 

Those screams of pain — those burning words all through 
the horror runs! 

I hate to think I'll go by fire — that's all that makes it 
hard. 

No, thanks — I've had enough tonight. I'm sleepy — 
s' long, old Pard! 



THEM DEBUTANTERS' CARAMELS 

They've sent us a lot of incendiary nuts, but the oneriest 

maverick 
Which ever got roped in a draft corral was that galloper, 

Chattering Chick. 
He hadn't the gump of a 2-year-old nor the nerve of a 

darned coyote — 
Guess the only excuse that he had for his feed was the 

volume o' suds he could tote. 

98 



TRENCH TALES 



He'd drink till the boys went off with a snore then sud- 
denly howl, "I'm dry!" 

And tackle a barrel of red pinard as easy as walloping 
pie! 

But give him a gun, or " over the top," and Lord, he'd 
just make you sick — 

His teeth would be chattering Cohan time, with his knees 
like a lantern wick. 

He got on the Captain's refined nerves. Says the Cap'n 

to Chick one day, 
11 You may be a man, you flea-bitten steer, but damned if 

you act that way! 
You've corralled two legs and a couple of arms and a 

thing that might be a head, 
Now rustle out there on the list'ning post. Get quiet — 

or plumb full of lead! " 

Old Chick started chattering lickety-split, but we didn't 

sabe the tune, 
The which was a species of King Willie Hoppe's — not 

elegant under the moon! 
But, whiles we palavered on shooting or rope (and some 

was in favor of both), 
Our Percival Perkins come round from his specs and like 

a societer quoth : 

" Remember that bundle which hitched up to me in one of 

the postman's spells? 
It carried the brand of my Darlingist Liz and bristled 

with caramels! 
Now, while I am loco on toasting her eyes — her cooking 

ain't corralled my heart, 
For one of them things got stuck to my jaws till the Doc 

had to prize them apart! 

99 



TRENCH TALES 



" So, seeing as Chick is bound to make noise with them 

chatterin' iv'ry of his, 
I moves that we gives him a sweet caramel which come 

from my darlingist Liz ! " 
We opines the idea is powerful good, and Chick sets down 

with his jaw 
All stuck with the stickiest caramel, the slickest you ever 

have saw ! 

The which brings to mind what spradelled out things 
these here debutanters can strike, 

I've knowed of a cowman which spotted their brand the 
half of a mile down the pike. 

" 'Tis thus," he opines, " they thinks of us boys as some- 
thing akin to a saint 

An' presents us with passels no human could use except 
for the things which they ain't! " 

This Percival guy got slathers of junk turned out by his 

400 crew, 
An' used to go working it off on the boys like these here 

Samaratins do. 
He give me two mittens too big for my feet, but they 

covers my head in the sap ; 
His sweaters was used for wristlets and robes and his 

socks was swell for a cap. 

But, cutting that out of the gen'ral round-up, I guess 
they means powerful well, 

An' we sho' is indebted to her of the knits which in- 
vented that caramel. 

For long about morning them Bodies got wise and 
started to pluggin' our sap, 

An' Chattering Chick tugged so hard on his jaws he 
almost let out a yap. 

100 



TRENCH TALES 



They come up right close, but never hearn much on ac- 
count o' that caramel, 

Tho we twisted a bit, an' was, I will say, some power- 
ful put for a spell, 

An' Chick was the gladdest of all when they hiked and 
didn't take nothin' to heart 

When we hammers a bayonet into his mouth persuading 
his jaw-bones apart. 

Now, speaking of sick, if Perk's Lady Friend is reading 

these lines here-about, 
I hopes she will spill him some more of that stuff 'fore 

our balance on hand gets chawed out, 
Fer Chicky's all right — but his teeth is too loud, and 

noise in a sap is plumb hell, 
An' the only sure cure for them chattering jaws is a 

debutanter's caramel! 



THE LITTLE NIGHTS, THE LEAN NIGHTS 

The little nights, the lean nights 

With scarce a wink of sleep; 
The long nights, the mad nights 

Where flaming monsters sweep; 
The grey nights, the red nights 

Where breathing sickles creep: 
The grim nights, the sad nights 

Where weeping angels reap. 

How lingers on the day! 

Its bloody sunset glowing 
As if it willed to ward away 

The eager night's red mowing! 
xoi 



TRENCH TALES 



Still poised above the crimson clouds 
The eagle watch is keeping, 

Swift scanning all the earthly crowds 
Who toll tomorrow's reaping. 

How lingers on the day! 

Its cheery sunshine holding 
As if it irked to steal away 

And leave the night's dark moulding. 
Tense nerved the sentry peers beyond 

The grim land slowly shading, 
How eagerly he greets the wan 

Last ray of sunlight fading. 

How lingers on the day! 

Its sun down — yet in glory! 
The rose skies strive to shun away 

The black night's horror story. 
Beyond, a steel voiced monster peals, 

Impatient of the waiting, 
And weeping day in silence steals 

Behind the grey cloud grating. 

How rushes in the night! 

Dark clad in anxious hours, 
So full of work, so full of fight, 

So destitute of flowers! 
The sentry peers into the gloom 

Where every noise is horror, 
Where every step is dark with doom — 

Where every morn brings sorrow. 

How lingers on the night! 
Its pall of mystery weaving 

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TRENCH TALES 



As if it willed to ward away 
The ruddy morn's sun cheering. 

The soldier grimly waits the light — 
The wondrous Day that's coming. 

For his is strength to win the night / 
And his the Day for homing. 

The little nights, the lean nights 

Too short for men to pray; 
The long nights, the mad nights 

Where fiends of horror play; 
The grey nights, the red nights 

Where germs of sorrow prey; 
The grim nights, the sad nights — 

How long before the Day! 



" HEAVEN, HELL OR HOBOKEN BEFORE 
CHRISTMAS!" 

Stuffed in a car like a pile of bags, 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet '! " 
Nothing to eat 'cept our Red Cross fags, 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet '! " 
Hey, buddies, you all hear that old engine blow? 

It won't be a shake 'fore we hit the show, 
And where in the devil you think we'll go ? 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet ' ! " 

Chorus : 

Heads down and bayonets fixed, 
Spit the Germs and don't get mixed, 

Heigh ho, I got yuh, bo, 
It's Heaven or Hell or Hobo-ken 

103 



TRENCH TALES 



Before old Santy comes, my lads, 
Before old Santy comes 

It's Heaven or Hell 

Or Ho-bo-ken 
Before old Santy comes — Will we go? 

Well, I guess! 

The Sergeant is whiter'n my gal's hand, 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet '! " 
He must be a skeer-red of Nobody's Land, 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ■ toot sweet ' ! " 
The " Loots " got his " gat " and he's off with a hop, 

It's after the Hun, lads, over the top, 
And now we've got going, why, where will we stop ? 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet M " 

Who knows what the devil we're fighting for? 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet ' ! " 
And what will we get when we win the war ? 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet ' ! " 
We don't give a damn, so hit 'em agin — 

A bottle of rum and a barrel of gin — 
I'm sho wid yuh, buddie, hit hard till we win 

" Hoboken or Heaven or Hell, ' toot sweet ' ! " 



SAVING THE RAILHEAD 

The night was clear on the battlefront, and the Ordnance 

Sergeant told 
A ringing tale of the Moro Land and the fate of the 

Scout Patrol. 

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TRENCH TALES 



The wet dew fell on the powder shacks and the calm of 

the world seemed laid 
On the long, low piles of the H.E. shells where the R.H. 

roads were spread. 



The night was clear on the battlef ront, and the Ordnance 

Sergeant spun 
A laughing yarn of the Cuban days with their work and 

scrap and fun. 
A shadow fell on the powder shacks and a faint throb 

tuned the air 
And the peaceful earth in a riot woke in the light of a 

monster flare ! 



A distant drone, then a swelling scream, with a deep, 

dull, sick'ning burst! 
A powder shack in a blaze went up and the Ordnance 

Sergeant cursed: 
" Fall out the alarm! To your buckets, boys! On the 

quick now! Sweet hell's bells! 
It's little rest we will get this night if the fire tongues 

reach those shells! " 



A distant drone, then a swelling scream with a sharp, 
bright, whistling burst! 

Lone eclats whined o'er the R.H. shacks and the Ord- 
nance Sergeant cursed: 

" They've got our range with the Bertha, boys, and it's 
nip and tuck tonight — 

We'll all get blown to that Blighty Place if we don't 
snuff out this light ! " 

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TRENCH TALES 



The green tongues licked from the powder shack but the 

boys stood pail in hand, 
And the eager sparks that were whipped around were 

soused with the waiting sand. 
The Archies roared at the planes up there — the shrapnel 

whistled back, 
And a long range shell with a scream came in to dud 

near the H.E. stack! 

Some rookies edged to the sandbag walls, but the Ord- 
nance Sergeant cried: 

" Well stick this post till the shells go up or the last 
damn spark has died ! " 

The boys plied water and sand and chem, till the last 
spark glowed a ghost, 

And the clear night fell on ten dark forms who wouldn't 
desert their post. 

The Berthas ceased as the light snuffed out, and they 

carried their dead away. 
By the shells they'd saved the Sergeant knelt, and the 

H. E.'s heard him pray: 
11 For every boy who has died this night, go bring me a 

toll of ten 
Who wrote these deeds on a peaceful world, God grant 

this prayer. Amen ! " 



THE DOUBLE-JOINTED DANE 

History tells in happy lore 
Of a one time gallant shore 

Whence the Vikings came, the masters of the main. 

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TRENCH TALES 



Tho their strength since crumbled down 
Where the men of earth are found 

There is always blue-eyed Norse or smiling Dane. 

For the blood of Vikings runs 
To the calling of the guns — 

To the love of fight and venture and romance. 
And a double-jointed Dane 
With a harvest colored mane 
- Was the " Top " who ran our credits up in France. 

He was father to his men, 
And I've heard him time again 

Say he'd never have them wiped out by the Huns. 
But we'd hardly hit the line 
When we got our chance to shine 

By a pill-box undertaking minus guns. 

It's a pretty deadly chance 
When a pill-box starts to dance 

If you're less the friendly curtain of barrage. 
So the double- jointed Dane 
Shook his harvest colored mane, 
And he crawled out 'fore the word was passed to charge. 

We were creepy thru and thru, 
And our yellow streaks were blue. 

Though we tried to grin, the little bumps would stay. 
Then we heard the Maxims pop 
As we scrambled o'er the top, 

But no pesky whiners seemed to come our way. 

We expected men to fall, 
But we heard no " whuts " at all, 

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TRENCH TALES 



And we heard no crumpled comrade groan with pain. 
Then we saw the gallant trick : — 
Where the pills were flying thick 

There was no one charging onward but the Dane! 

He had crawled out to the wire 
And had drawn the Bodies' fire 

By a nervy charge alone up to their line ! 
He was swinging of his shanks 
Like a regiment of tanks! 

As a counterfeit offensive he was fine ! 

But the Heinies had his range — 
And before they knew to change 

We were on them spreading havoc left and right! 
And for every pill they shot 
At our Dane, you bet we got 

Double toll of sneaking Boches trussed up tight! 

Then we found him going back — 
Though his life was pretty slack 

(For they'd plugged him till his O. D.'s seemed in 
rags) 
He'd the same old kiddish grin ; 
Said he'd meet us in Berlin ; 

Said we'd fought just like he knew we would, " be 
jags! " 

He was buried where he fell, 
Where he fought so wondrous well, 

And he's fellow to the haunting battle ghost. 
But we know he's happy there 
Where the battle-beacons flare, 

And he meets his one-time comrades on their posts. 

108 



TRENCH TALES 



In the darkest hours of night, 
When the world is mad with fright, 

He is leading on his soldiers once again : 
For we know his spirit asks 
Every man to do his tasks, 

And our sector guards the sleeping of our Dane! 



TAPS 

The long, low hillsides grimly showing 

Above the valleys seared and white, 
Where little campfires, ruddy glowing, 

Cheer out the agony of night. 
The kindly snowflakes, softly falling, 

Have blanketed the Honor Nest, 
And sweet the sleeptime bugle's calling 

Back There a weary world to rest. 

How strange we dream of other " quarters " 

When taps' soft notes are sounding clear, 
Beyond the restless, homing waters 

Where once the sleeptime claimed us dear. 
Now strange these nights of red awaking 

These sleepless nights of thundering guns, 
The peaceful valleys rudely quaking 

Before the onslaught of the Huns! 

Where once we clustered, joking, singing, 

Around our cheery bivouac fires 
Till taps sweet sleeptime's notes came bringing 

The restful dreams of filled desires. 
Or else, with romance gaily roaming 

Where all was life, and life was love, 
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TRENCH TALES 



We heard the bugle's call to homing, 
Yet — who could ever, ever move ? 

But now, across the waking valleys 

Red rubies stain the drifted snow 
And Fate, relentless, strikes and tallies 

Where peaceful notes were wont to blow. 
Still — somewhere taps is sweetly blowing, 

And merry hearts are called to rest, 
And we, thrice happy in the knowing, 

Can wake at taps to do our best! 



THE END 



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